Revenge Is Cruel
by BlackBandit111
Summary: In order to save the King, D'Artagnan battles a man in the courtroom, killing him; however, the man has a partner who is out for revenge. And this partner knows exactly where D'Artagnan's soft spot is: his heart. Better than summary, rated for blood. No main character death. Complete
1. Chapter 1

**Hullo, my friends! I am here writing another story WHEN I should be updating others, but oh well. Here is my Musketeers fanfic and leave me a comment please!**

* * *

D'Artagnan gazed into the eyes of the man who had just tried to kill Louis XIII at four o'clock in the morning. His sword was raised in front of him in what was supposed to be a threatening manner, but honestly D'Artagnan was just trying to stay upright. His eyes were half lidded and closing over sea blue eyes before snapping back into focus.

Louis stood behind him, watching anxiously from over the Gascon's shoulder, but D'Artagnan paid him no mind as the man with brown hair, blue eyes and a malicious scar across his face grinned. D'Artagnan barely had time to form the question of why he was grinning before he was seeing stars and stumbling backwards, trying desperately to regain his balance. His cheekbone throbbed where it had been struck, and D'Artagnan was tempted to reach up and prod it to see how injured he was, but resisted.

He chastised himself silently, for he had lost focus, which he was trying desperately to keep. But the much older, more muscular man had big fists that he swung wildly. That...and they hurt like mad. "Oh come on, Gascon, can you not keep your focus?" He jeered, snarling. D'Artagnan didn't pay any attention, blocking and dodging and swiping his sword to match his opponent's.

D'Artagnan's shoulders slumped momentarily before stiffening again, his eyes snapping back open. He hadn't even realized he closed them.

Zagris- for that was the man's name- sneered at the young man, and D'Artagnan's eyes widened slightly as he swallowed. He seemed to realize for the first time that night that this battle wasn't going to be as easy as he had thought. Zagris was confident, controlled, and knew what he was up against. What did D'Artagnan know?

The man's name.

He took a deep breath, glancing down. He took another breath, slowly exhaling, and willing his hands to stop shaking. He didn't even know they'd been trembling. Straightening his back and standing a little taller, D'Artagnan felt determination filling his soul. Before he could do anything, however, a blade suddenly appeared out of the man's chest.

The convict, looking down at a slowly spreading, dark colored stain on his chest, his eyes widening, dropped to the ground when the blade was removed. There stood Athos, brows furrowed and lips turned up in a scowl, head tilted slightly to the side as if considering something somehow. Shaking his head, he muttered gruffly, "D'Artagnan," before grabbing said musketeer's forearm and dragging him towards the other end of the room, away from the intruder.

"Mmhm?" D'Artagnan murmured back tiredly, eyelids fluttering. Athos gave him a shake, making the boy's long locks of chocolate colored hair dance across his face and into his eyes a little, managing to drag them up so the baby blue orbs were visible.

"You lost focus," Athos scolded, nearly yelling, "you let him get too close!"

D'Artagnan made no response at first, which made Athos say darkly, "were you listening to me, boy?" The young country boy nodded, head lolling a little. There were thin scrapes to D'Artagnan's torso which made thin lines of blood through the white nightshirt D'Artagnan was wearing, and his cheek was bleeding freely.

"I'm up at four in the morning Athos, after a long day of practice; give me a break." D'Artagnan retaliated, shrugging Athos's hand off of him. Athos, who had been pondering how deep the stomach wounds were, snapped his sharp gaze back to the child standing in front of him. D'Artagnan had his arms crossed, his sword now sheathed on his belt, brows furrowed, and lips taut.

It had not occurred to Athos that the boy had been injured severely, but now that it did, he really should stop that bleeding.

"He'll be the death of me," Athos muttered, "the idiot child." D'Artagnan was overconfident and cocky, carefree and headstrong, always looking for a fight to entertain him and an adventure to go on. It annoyed Athos to no end that, seemingly, with almost every mission they went on, D'Artagnan ended up damaged in some sort of way, shape or form.

"D'Artagnan," Athos barked, temper flaring once more now that D'Artagnan had his gaze locked elsewhere, "boy!"

D'Artagnan's eyes darted to his, then to the ground. "Hm?"

"Strip," Athos said curtly.

D'Artagnan's keen gaze flew back to his face, his eyes widening. _"Excuse me?"_

"Take off your shirt, boy!" D'Artagnan did as told, but Athos caught the little winces and curses that flew freely from his mouth as he slowly and carefully removed his shirt. Athos knew D'Artagnan had fine muscles and was skinny as most children were, but he couldn't help but notice that D'Artagnan's ribs poked out a bit too much, his collarbone a bit too pronounced.

But the boy had a and could run fairly quickly too, so he supposed this didn't necessarily mean anything.

Frankly, all the occupants of the room had forgotten about the presence of the king until he spoke. "Oh D'Artagnan, I'll call my personal physician."

"Your Majesty, that really won't be necces-" D'Artagnan tried, hands wringing together, but Louis silenced him with a wave of his hand and a raised eyebrow.

"tut tut, I insist."

"Well...thank you, You're Majesty."

"Of course, D'Artagnan." Louis replied with something akin to fondess as he ordered a servant to send for the physician and all but commanded D'Artagnan to sit down. The young Gascon did so reluctantly, eyes darting between Louis and Athos in some unspoken, unknown message, and hands fisting in his tunic. It took Athos a moment to realize that D'Artagnan believed he was in some sort of trouble. Athos sighed, bringing a hand to his brow before pinching the bridge of his nose and exhaling slowly. Gazing at the young man another long, piercing second, he noticed...D'Artagnan's hands were trembling.

His shoulders slumped and he was caught in the fact that he didn't know what to do. He knew he had to correct D'Artagnan on his life-threatening mistake, but didn't want to experience the look on the boy's face, which would probably be one of shame and embarrassment. Athos hated seeing this, and wished there was another way to go about critiquing the boy. Of course, if there was another method, it eluded the older musketeer shamelessly, taunting him with its distance yet teasing him, just out of reach.

"D'Artagnan, you need to keep your head in battle, you need to be aware of your surroundings at all times!" It was a growl, and Athos's eyebrows were plastered low on his forehead, trying to imply the seriousness of the error.

"I kno-"

"And you need to understand the importance of focus, boy! You are dimmer than most, but a fine swordsman, and I'd like to keep you uninjured for three days at most! Seeking fights and overconfidence is a weakness and it is most unwise, even for a half wit like yourself! Do you never think?"

Silence met the rhetorical question, so Athos continued. "You need to use your opponents weakness, and never let your guard loose! You are arrogant, cocky. Sloppy."

"Hey!" D'Artagnan protested, eyes aflame and hands balled into fists. He mere notches from rising to his full height to go against the older man. Only Louis orders and presence kept him sitting. "I have been trained finely, thank you very much Athos, and I know what I can and cannot accomplish, I do not need your lectures in sword adequate!"

"You very well do, if it will peg you down! Your head is nearly as big as an airship, D'Artagnan, and do not talk back to me!"

D'Artagnan growled, glared at Athos, and set his jaw. "I-"

"Athos, D'Artagnan, that is enough!" Aramis interjected, becoming peacemaker between the two clashing heads once again, as was an action on many occasions.

"Do not!" Athos roared at Aramis, who glared at him with a ferocity seemingly incapable for the religious man.

"I do not-" D'Artagnan tried, but Aramis silenced him too with a look.

"Now, I expect this matter to be rested for the night. Enough." D'Artagnan looked at his feet, cheeks rosy with anger and embarrassment, but Athos and Aramis stared at each other coldly, both waiting for one to back down. Their staring contest was interrupted by a loud, extremely original curse from D'Artagnan's direction where they turned their attention. The physician was cleaning out the boy's wounds with a wet rag and doing rather well to ignore D'Artagnan's fluent original cusses.

"D'Artagnan!" Aramis scolded lightly, but said country boy did not hear him over his monologue. He was staring at the ceiling of the courtroom where the fight had originated, head back and hands clenching the under sides of the chair. Athos glanced around the room, preparing an apology to the king on D'Artagnan's behalf, but Louis was no where in sight. Athos, taking a step back and his eyes widening, looked about the room once more, before dismissing the thought. Louis was out of immediate danger, and had probably just gone back to bed.

Aramis sighed, shaking his head, and turning his gaze back to his older companion, who had walked away without his notice. D'Artagnan had asked not to be helped with the intruder, but he had just been so exhausted and hardly had his head in the duel- it was lucky Athos stepped in when he did. But Aramis realized it had made D'Artagnan feel useless, weak, and it had thoroughly embarrassed him; that was something Aramis never wanted the boy to feel, but in all fairness, without Athos...

D'Artagnan could have died.

* * *

The dawn was barely creeping across the horizon by the time they made it back to their little house, D'Artagnan dragging his feet more than usually from tiredness, but otherwise bandaged and alright. The four made their way through the door and shut the cold, dewy morning air out and entered the warmth of the small yet cozy building. D'Artagnan collapsed in a chair, leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Mere moments later, his brows relaxed from their furrowed state, his whole face grew slack, and his body slowly went limp. Aramis listened for the last telltale sign- there, that was it.

D'Artagnan's breathing had evened out. He was asleep.

Aramis snapped his fingers in Athos's direction, who turned towards him, a question on his lips. When he caught sight of his young charge, however, he sighed, running a hand over his face. Opening his eyes again, he gazed at D'Artagnan with a certain degree of fondness, before approaching him as quietly as possible.

"D'Artagnan?" No response. "D'Artagnan?" Athos spoke in a hushed whisper, gently shaking D'Artagnan's shoulder. "D'Artagnan."

The boy's bright blue eyes fluttered open. "'thos?" He murmured in his half- aware state, and the older musketeers coaxed D'Artagnan up out of the chair, and up the stairs. He gently eased open the door to D'Artagnan's room, before guiding the still half-asleep D'Artagnan to his bed. The young man smiled at him before laying back and closing his eyes.

He was asleep in seconds.

Athos changed the shirt, removed the shoes, drew the blinds to block out the morning sun, and muttered, "Goodnight, D'Artagnan" before closing the door. He did not miss the returned, albeit slurred response of "Goodnight, Athos" on his way out.

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**Please comment on what you think and thanks for reading- chapter two up soon!**


	2. Chapter 2

**I don't remember if I did this, but_ disclaimer: I don't own musketeers._ **

**However, I do own someone later on in the chapter...**

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The sun shone quietly through the blinds, hitting D'Artagnan's face at an angle that made it look like he was glowing. In his white nightshirt and under the dark covers, his hands resting softly on his chest and at his side, he looked peaceful; untroubled. His hair lay a little in his face and around his head, but was otherwise tame.

Constance admired this as she stood in the doorway, staring at the young musketeer still under the spell of sleep. His face was relaxed and void of emotion, and his eyelashes lay against his cheeks. Constance had not known they were long- not longer than hers, but not short enough to not be noticed against the suntanned face.

He stirred, and Constance immediately went to close the door to hide her presence, and found she did not want to. She did not want him to wake, nor to notice her there, watching him. He did awaken though, turning his head towards and then away from the window, shielding his eyes from the light.D'Artagnan looked in her direction and spotted her, his face splitting into a wide grin. Constance felt her cheeks flush with pleasure, and she tried to stifle her own smile at his obviousness and innocence.

"uhm," D'Artagnan stumbled, trying to gain his footing though still terribly groggy, "hi." She stifled a smirk at his lack of words, pulling a stray hair out of her face. Instead of replying, she opted to merely smile tightly his way, before winking and turning to descend the stairs. "Wait!"

She stopped suddenly at the cry, turning back around with her eyebrows raised; he stood there at the top of the flight, looking flustered and unsure as to what he would say next. "I, uh," he stuttered, wringing his hands together, "I just- um...would you like to maybe dine with me- us- me, later?" He bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing.

She smirked again at his predicament, which was lack of his usual bravado- she didn't blame him, he _had_ just woken up after all. But she found herself flattered nonetheless, and actually admiring this new side to D'Artagnan. "What exactly is the definition of later?" She asked, though did not sound overly excited.

D'Artagnan's eyes snapped open, and he stared at her a moment, before uttering, "oh. How about tomorrow, around-"

"I'll see if I can get off." She cut him off, saving him the time. She would come when she knew they were dining, whether it be early or late- and who knew, it might be alright. He grinned at her brightly, nodding, before gulping and shuffling his feet.

She smiled at his stupidity after she turned around. It did make that weird, warm feeling bloom at the bottom of her stomach one could classify later as butterflies. She shook her head before wrapping her shawl around her shoulders more snugly, opening the door and preparing for the chill the cold air would bring.

_Tomorrow, then,_ she thought, smiling, _I'll see you tomorrow._

* * *

It was common knowledge where the darker places of France dwelt, and that they should be avidly avoided. This was the home of the murderers, the pick pockets and revenge seekers. This was the crawl hole for the robbers and the attackers, those who wished to do terrible things to others; and this is where, however unlikely it may seem, the King of Buckingham could be found.

These hideouts consisted of damp walls and dark tunnels, where shadows leered at people as they passed and dark figures flickered just at the edges of the person's vision, but when those brave enough quickly glanced the figure's way they vanished. Whispers echoed throughout the halls of long deserted chambers, and the light of the torches was suddenly snuffed by a mysterious breeze in places breezes were not to be. Floors were scorched with dark scuff marks and a layer of ash and dust rested over everything, coating the fingers of someone who found themselves unfortunate as to have accidently brushed something.

A deep rumble reverberated through the tunnels, dry and void of any amusement. It was something that could be considered an attempt at a chuckle, yet the only sound it accomplished was a throaty scratch. Buckingham paced, brows furrowed and lips taut. Deliberate steps made a clacking sound on the cold stone flooring, the soles of his boots squeaking in protest to the constant movement. Buckingham ignored this, eyes narrowing as his thought process finally struck something useful.

Commanding Zagris to attack the king had been rash, barely planned, and had little purpose. It accomplished nearly nothing, besides an attempted murder and sending France onto high alert to any enemy presence. The past two and a half hours had also amounted to nothing but a severe headache, yet he supposed that was of his own fault.

But finally an idea had occurred to him that was incredibly valuable indeed. Zagris, his loyal spy, had indeed had someone- a partner. And surely, this partner of his would want to be informed of Zagris' death? Wasn't it a likely conclusion that, in addition to hearing his partner's deceased, the partner would want to know how the man met his demise?

And what kind of a man would Buckingham be if he did not provide the poor, lost soul with an answer?

* * *

D'Artagnan felt his cheeks grow warm. Constance had just swept out the door, the breeze still playing with his hair from when it had entered. He sighed, running a hand over his face, shoulders slumping. _Oh dear God, _he thought suddenly, eyes widening and mouth opening slightly in horror, _I must've sounded like a complete and utter..._

He cut himself off, not allowing the thought to finish. It didn't matter anymore, anyway; she had promised to do what she could in regards to her duties, therefore there was nothing he could do to benefit his chances. Bare feet padding lightly on the floor, D'Artagnan gently closed the door to his room and plopped gracelessly onto his unmade bed, arms folding across his chest.

A knock at the door interrupted his thought process. "Up, D'Artagnan!" Someone exclaimed from the opposite side of the door, the voie D'Artagnan recognized as Aramis's. Glancing at the window, D'Artagnan had only just realized how late it was from the position of the sun, and hastily pulled on a new shirt. He slipped into a fresh pair of pants and hurriedly pulled his boots onto his bare feet, grabbing his sword by its hilt from its resting place against the nightstand.

"Coming!" He called as he swiftly jumped three steps at a time, noting Athos's tone when his gruff voice said, 'get over here, now!' and concluding Athos was no more upset with him from last night than Athos was every night. Descending the last couple of steps and regaining his footing from where it had been momentarily thrown, he paused a moment, gathered his bearings, then entered the main room.

...

"Morning," he said cheerfully as he reached the table that had been set already with food. Goblets full of dark wine sat innocently next to half filled plates, and D'Artagnan seated himself, preparing himself his own plate. Athos grunted in response, tipping a goblet back and throwing the wine down his throat. As D'Artagnan had predicted, Athos had no place set for himself.

Aramis smiled back kindly, looking up from what he was reading, tipping his head in his young comrade's direction before returning to his novel. Porthos had not finished his fill yet however, and was still eating- albeit slowly. He acknowledged D'Artagnan with a wide grin and a spark of mischief in his eyes. Planchet smiled and nodded D'Artagnan's way from where he was drying dishes in the kitchen, but was otherwise silent.

D'Artagnan looked to them all with a thoughful expressoin to him, refusing to break the silence any longer with meaningless greetings, and therefore sitting without speaking.

* * *

In the small place of Gascony, eventful or momentus occasions were often hard to come by. When they did occur, they were usually quiet, and happened at erratic times. People came and went frequently, for permanent leave or temporary residence, so it was not considered a large concern when a black cloaked man entered the village on a dark horse. The common folk merely opted to remain far from this person, as they were accostomed to newcomers, though smart enough to know which to veer away from. They only viewed this man as another strange one, a person not to cross yet not to ignore; therefore, they greeted him slightly stiffly, but nonetheless, he was welcomed.

And then he went, just as all the others had gone, and the people dismissed this. It hadn't crossed their minds that this mysterious man may have had different intentions- those other than traveling.

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**Okay, so that's that. Thanks for reading, and please, feedback is appreciated. No flames, please :) Leave me a comment!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Okay, my friends! Back with another chapter. Thanks to all those who have commented so far!**

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Athos had tackled many challenges, but he believed D'Artagnan to be one of the greatest and most difficult. He cared greatfully for the boy, although at times it was not as obvious, and he only wished for D'Artagnan to stay safe and use his head. It was common knowledge that D'Artagnan was housing with the musketeers; what most were not aware of, however, was how Athos' heart skipped a beat whenever D'Artagnan could be potentially injured in some way.

D'Artagnan was youthful. It was in his face, his posture, his personality. D'Artagnan was quick in his actions and decisions, mercurial in his emotions. He had yet to experience the hardships of war, the sights of death. The burden of grief and loss. Athos had remained awake many nights, brooding by the fire, and attempting to unscramble the confusing peices to his young companion.

So when D'Artagnan came practically skipping down the steps that morning, saying brightly, "morning!" Athos had stifled a smile and a scowl and assumed it was D'Artagnan being D'Artagnan. But then he recalled that the young Constance girl had arrived this morning, greeted them warmly, then ascended the stairs. She had left with a smile on her face and rosy cheeks.

_Ahh, to be young and in love,_ Athos thought, slightly bitter,_ untroubled by such burdens and responsibilities._ Athos was not resentful towards D'Artagnan, but rather felt a sinking feeling in his stomach. From his own experience, Athos had endured extensive amounts of heartache. He didn't wish for D'Artagnan to go through what he had.

D'Artagnan had so many different, contrasting personality traits, and this was the sole reason he was so hard to evaluate. D'Artagnan was cocky and overconfident at one point, stumbling around trying to appear impressive. Then, at others, he was this witty, intelligent, bright eyed young man who had a knack for strategy. He was overall noble, chivalrous, and the definition of a good person. He could be terribly aggravating, and often disregarded any and all instruction, however was eager to learn and lived by example.

They sat in silence, Athos wondering what D'Artagnan was thinking about as he studied the boy's face. D'Artagnan's lips were drawn into a thin line, his eyebrows furrowed slighty. His fingers drummed against the wood of the table. But Athos rose from his chair, unintentionally startling D'Artagnan out of his thoughts. D'Aragnan also stood abruptly, but for whatever reason, Athos couldn't disern. Aramis looked at the two of them carefully, as if wondering if they were to argue again, but Porthos was staring into his cup.

Athos had forgotten about their skirmish last night, but now that he remembered, he felt his heart sink. He clenched his jaw, attempting to block out the flood of guilt trying to drown him, before shutting his eyes and blinking rapidly. He had yelled at the young man, effectively embarrassing him. He had lectured him. Athos blamed himself for D'Artagnan's injuries, though. He should've known better than to allow a slightly groggy D'Artagnan try to duel a master swordsman in the first place.

Athos stared at D'Artagnan, who averted his gaze to his shoes. After another awkward moment of absolute silence, Athos shook his head slightly with a huff, re-seating himself. He was well aware that he was trying to stifle all feelings he might have, whether D'Artagnan caused them to arise or not. D'Artagnan audibly sighed, and Athos again could feel something gnaw at his stomach. Did the country boy perhaps think he was still angry?

D'Artagnan, who had remained standing, finally rolled his eyes and strode with a quick pace towards the front door. Grabbing his hat and cloak, he glanced their way, muttering,"see you later," before exiting. Athos sighed, pouring himself another goblet of wine.

* * *

D'Artagnan was wandering the streets with little purpose, seeking a small skirmish with the Cardinal's guards to occupy his time. Before he could find a suitable opponent, however, something caught his attention at the top of the street. A small crowd had gathered around something, light murmuring reaching D'Artagnan's attuned ears.

Curiosity getting the better of him, D'Artagnan pushed his way through the crowd, confused and in want of answers. He reached the very front edge of the crowd, and stopped dead in his tracks. There was someone that D'Artagnan assumed was a man lying on the ground. Half his face was burned and turning to ash, blackening with every passing moment. The poor man gasped for air he could not inhale. D'Artagnan dropped to his knees, arms waving frantically as he scrambled uselessly to help, but he didn't know how.

The man grabbed his shirt, his brown eyes staring at the boy panicked, before rasping, "Find the...one, they...call D'Artagnan...warn him..."

D'Artagnan's brows furrowed further as he began to say, "I'm D'Artagnan, warm me of what?" But before he could fully ask the question, the man slumped to the ground. The hand that clutched at D'Artagnan's collar went limp, his hand falling away. Brown eyes stared unseeingly at the sky, and D'Artagnan huffed heavily, leaning back to rest on his haunches.

He gazed at the man a moment longer before standing slowly, pondering the pauper's words. _Find the one they call D'Artagnan, warn him... _But against what? He glanced back up the street as if he would find all the answers to his unspoken questions there, but instead found himself looking upon a rather familiar sight.

Her face was dirt streaked and her long brown hair mussed, her clothes not much better. She was dressed poorly, but carried a knife at her waist. Her cheeks were flushed and had light freckles dancing across them, over her nose which was the perfect size to fit her face. Her lips were chapped and a bit bloody, but otherwise fine. She smiled when she saw him looking at her, and he would know that girl anywhere. The sharp blue eyes, just a shade off from his own, seemed to penetrate his soul.

"...Marci?"

* * *

Athos, after finishing his drink, donned his hat and cloak and began his search for D'Artagnan on the street. He had not walked for long when he suddenly found himself upon a large cluster of people, gathered around something. Athos' mind immediately flew to a street performer, but this did not make sense; their would have been more of a ruckus and less silence.

Pushing his way through the crowd, Athos managed to make it to the front before suddenly hearing the young, all-too familiar voice say, "Marci?" Athos followed the gaze up the street. A young girl stood there, in tattered clothing and worn out boots, but an expression of disbelief on her little face.

"Tagnan!" She cried, dropping her pack and running towards him, long brown hair flowing behind her and crystal blue eyes only a shade off from D'Artagnan's. D'Artagnan opened his arms wide, going into a crouch so he could reach her better, and when she ran into his arms he encased her in them tightly. Observing her, Athos realized that she could only be four or five, _maybe_ six. He dismissed the purpose of her arrival with ease; easily determined through simple methods. He was more concerned with _how_ she _got_ to Paris. A young girl like that couldn't _possibly_ have traveled on her own? It was improbable.

But another question rose to Athos's mind. What in the world was D'Artagnan's relationship with this little girl? They certainly looked alike enough to be father and daughter. They had the same features, same set body. It wasn't altogether an unlikely conclusion. But D'Artagnan was too young to have children, too inexperienced with women yet. The only other answer, Athos decided, was a younger sister. Which on the whole, seemed incredibly more likely.

"Marci, what are you doing here?" D'Artagnan asked with a bright smile on his face that was entirely new to Athos. He had never seen that expression before. D'Artagnan appeared overjoyed, ecstatic; but at the same time, wary and concerned. D'Artagnan peered into his sister's face as if trying to disern her reason for being in Paris- much more, without supervision- and the girl stared at her boots.

"Are Mother and Father here too?" He asked, but when no answer was offered forth his smile faded into a frown.

"That's why I came," she spoke in that high pitched, sweet voice one only finds on children, "Mama and Papa won't wake up!"

D'Artagnan's face visibly paled. "Marci," he said, obviously choosing his words carefully, "let's talk about this later, when we're somewhere else, yeah?" She nodded, taking his hand. D'Artagnan let out the air he had been holding in a long huff. He blinked rapidly, swallowing hard, and Athos knew that the Gascon was attempting to maintain his composure.

"How did you get here?" He asked her softly, his voice wavering despite his efforts.

"Walked," she said simply. "Why won't they wake up? Won't you help them? There's red stuff everywhere, D'Artagnan!"

D'Artagnan sighed, running a hand over his face. Athos hadn't noticed when Porthos and Aramis had arrived, but Aramis was on his right murmuring something under his breath. Porthos was on Athos's right, eyes to the ground and silent.

"Um..." D'Artagnan searched for a good explanation, eyes darting around as he thought. "I don't know," he settled for, "I'm not sure. I'll do my best, Marce."

She nodded, throwing her arms around his neck and saying, "I missed you."

He put his arms around her tiny, skinny frame and replied, "I missed you too, Marci. Tell me, are Henri, Ceron, and Aubin the same way as Mother and Father?"

Marci nodded. "What does it mean, D'Artagnan?" She demanded, "I know you know."

D'Artagnan sighed, looking up, and shook his head. "I don't know." It was a strangled reply, one that was blocking a flow of emotions.

Athos assumed Henri, Ceron and Aubin were D'Artagnan's other siblings. Athos hadn't been aware D'Artagnan was one of five. He had just assumed D'Artagnan was a single child when he arrived in Paris- cocky, arrogant. Athos had thought this was more because D'Artagnan didn't have siblings to knock him down a few notches. It made sense now, though. D'Artagnan didn't have older siblings to correct him. And parents can't watch all the time. Everything was starting to make sense.

And if D'Artagnan was the oldest, that meant...

He was going to blame himself.

* * *

Gascony was a small, uneventful place. Nothing ever occurred out of the ordinary, except for the travelers- some came, others went. It was just how things were. So no one had regarded the black cloaked stranger on the dark horse. They had dismissed his presence. That was a mistake on all their parts.

A bloody sword was swiftly wiped with a rag, clearing all evidence of fighting, and a black hood lay over a head donned with a dark hat. The cowl hid the person's face, but the glint of yellow teeth and malicious, bright eyes could not have been ignored, no matter one's attempts to disregard seeing so.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: This chapter didn't turn out exactly as I wanted it to, but oh well! I like it all the same. Next chapter up soon, please, remember to leave me comments! **

* * *

Athos, Aramis, and Porthos watched D'Artagnan's reaction carefully as the young man asked if Marci could stay with them. "It's only for the time being," he assured, "and she'll stay out of the way." The three men answered 'yes' without the slightest hesitation. D'Artagnan looked almost like he wanted to shatter. His world was crashing down around him. He refused, instead removing his hat and placing it back in it's correct place, and telling Marci to go play while he talked with his companions.

D'Artagnan was shaky and pale, suddenly looking gaunt. It added years to his face. Lines Athos didn't even have were sketched into D'Artagnan's skin, expressing the sheer severity of the situation. D'Artagnan gave Marci a quill, ink and parchment and she immediately started to entertain herself with them. D'Artagnan sat at the table and put his head in his hands, staying silent. They didn't dare break his reverie.

After some while, D'Artagnan stirred himself, and perhaps looked a hundred times older than he was. Athos decided he hated this look on the young musketeer- it was absolutely unnatural. D'Artagnan was meant to be this arrogant, cocky, confident, courageous, big hearted young man who was the definition of morality and perhaps the shining beacon of innocence and youth. Not this grim, broken being that stood before Athos.

It was frightening to say the least.

"Well, all is perhaps not lost yet," D'Artagnan said half heartedly. "For perhaps Marci is wrong in her memory of the description of my family, and I cannot be sure. Therefore, I believe a trip to Gascony would prove fruitful, and I shall ask the King's permission immediately." D'Artagnan said this nodding, as if he was approving of his own idea. Athos was hesitant about going to Gascony. What if the Marci girl was right? What if D'Artagnan's family _was_ dead? Surely it would be torturous to see his murdered family. If they did go at all, they shouldn't bring D'Artagnan.

But D'Artagnan needed closure, and Athos could see no other way. "To the palace it is then." Aramis said in an overly optimistic voice, and Porthos nodded determinedly.

"You need not come with me..." D'Artagnan said nervously, as if afraid they would say they wished not to. It was a foolish idea, that they would not accompany him. Of course they would. There was no need for doubt.

"My boy, of course we will come," Aramis said warmly, making D'Artagnan's expression go from one of nervousness to one of relief.

"Aye lad, wouldn't miss it," Porthos added. Athos merely stared at D'Artagnan with an unreadable expression, but inside he wanted to hug the poor child and tell him that everything was going to be alright, just for the white lie to be worth it and bring comfort to him.

D'Artagnan's eyes darted to the ground at his lack of response, and Athos realized his mistake a second too late. "I will accompany you also," he reassured, but D'Artagnan did not try to meet his eyes again.

"What will I do with Marci?" D'Artagnan asked quietly.

"...We'll figure something out," Aramis said calmingly. D'Artagnan didn't meet any of their eyes.

"Come, D'Artagnan," Porthos said, clapping him lightly on the shoulder, "let us go to the palace, ask Louis for your few days leave, yes?" D'Artagnan nodded, and his silence greatly disturbed Athos. It was so...un D'Artagnan like.

"Marci," The boy called to his younger sister, "Come on, we're going...somewhere."

Marci sprang up, saying, "Yay!" and grabbed D'Artagnan's hand as he grabbed his hat again.

* * *

D'Artagnan, Porthos, Athos, Aramis, and Marci were kneeling in the main room when Louis XIII came through the door, followed by the Queen Anne and her ladies in waiting. Louis clapped his hands, saying, "rise, my brave musketeers, and tell me why you have come to pay me a visit, shall we say?"

D'Artagnan took a deep breath, and began. "Your Majesty-"

"D'Artagnan, look me into the eyes when you speak," Louis suddenly commanded softly, and paused, as though he'd with to say something else. After a moment of silence, however, D'Artagnan did so, his blue eyes stormy with a million different thoughts swirling in them. Louis, though arrogant and childlike at times, noticed this.

"Your Majesty, my sister has recently arrived," D'Artagnan explained, looking up at him, his eyes flickering only for a moment over to the girl kneeling next to him. She was looking up at her king also; and only then did Louis realize that the two did look incredibly alike, in all but the shade of eye color and gender distinguishment.

D'Artagnan continued. "And she claims that my-my family," he swallowed, and Athos winced as he knew this was painful and that the boy was cursing himself further for his voice wavering. "um, that they are...in a bad state..." The young man's eyes were trying to convey something to Louis, darting from his own to the girl. Then Louis understood.

"My Queen," Louis said, glancing over to her with a faint smile on his face, "why don't we show-erm-"

"Marcelle," D'Artagnan offered.

"Yes, Marcelle, around the castle a bit, hmm?"

The Queen Anne, fully understanding, smiled and bowed. "Of course, my lord," She said politely, gesturing to the girl who stood up.

Marci looked to D'Artagnan though, eyes shining with hope, and asked, "can I?" D'Artagnan nodded, smiling. She flung her arms around his neck for a second before skipping happily towards the Queen, who smiled nicely at her.

Nodding her head towards the King and then at the musketeers, Queen Anne departed the room.

* * *

Anne knew from experience how to handle small children. So she was surprised when Marcelle did not question her about anything. "So Marcelle," Anne tried, "How do you like D'Artagnan as a brother?"

Marci turned sharply towards the Queen when addressed, from where she had been looking at the designs on the walls in the hallway. "Uhm, well, I like Marci better than Marcelle," She said uncomfortably, before brightening. "D'Artagnan's great!" Her ladies in waiting tittered, and Anne couldn't help but notice that Constance's eyebrows quirked with interest.

"Really? What does he do?" Anne asked, generally intrigued. D'Artagnan was cute and sweet, but arrogant at times, and did not strike her as good with children-much less, with little girls.

"Well, he taught me how to climb trees and sword fight and ride a horse," she said, and the Queen raised her eyebrows now. "And he tells me stories, and helps me pick apples, and sometimes does my chores for me."

_Does her chores for her_, Anne thought._ Naughty, naughty, D'Artagnan_. Although dueling and climbing trees were not the ideal definition of fun for women, Anne found herself smiling in spite of that. It was something the two of them shared together, and perhaps the only things D'Artagnan could teach Marcelle about. Certainly, Gascony did not have frivilous women just walking about.

"Why do you prefer Marci over Marcelle?"

"Well, when I was born, D'Artagnan was second to hold me," Marci retold the story like she had heard it thousands of times."And when they told him my name, he thought it was too long, so he shortened it. My parents say he shook his head and declared that Marci was much more suiting. And when they asked him why, he told them he thought Marcelle was too formal; meant for a grown up and not a little girl."

* * *

"Tagnan!" Marci squealed, running at D'Artagnan full speed when she spotted him at the end of the hall. He smiled broadly, reached down and scooped her up, spinning her in a circle. She giggled wildly as she was rotated, hair flinging itself around as the arms at her waist supported her. "S-stop Tagnan, you're m-making me d-dizzy!" She managed through her peals of laughter. He chuckled, slowly coming to a halt and gently setting her back on her feet.

"Did you enjoy yourself?"

Marci nodded enthusiastically. "Oh yes! Queen Anne showed me all around the palace!" D'Artagnan looked up briefly at the Queen, eyes flickering from Anne to Marci as he mouthed, "thank you."

And he truly looked grateful.

Out of the corner of her eye, Anne saw Constance blush and turn her head towards the ground. The young man was still staring at Anne, as if asking if she had understood what he had mouthed. She only nodded in return, and he gave her a small smile, turning his attention back to the little girl clutching his hand and jumping up and down.

"Tagnan," Marci exclaimed, tugging on his sleeve in her excitement, "Tagnan, Tagnan, Tagnan!"

D'Artagnan grinned, asking quickly to stop the ongoing flow of exclaimations, "what- what, what-"

"What are we going to do now?" She asked, ceasing the jumps. He smirked.

"Well, what do you want to do now?"

She paused, eyes upturned and brows scrunched. D'Artagnan's lips turned upwards slightly at her expression. "Colors? Make me colors?" She asked, eyes glinting.

He laughed softly, eyes alight with amusement. "Alright," he agreed, "as long as you don't make a mess, yeah?" She nodded vigorously, her long hair bouncing with the movements of her head. He grinned at her, looked back again once at Anne, and nodded his head slightly. Then he was gone, Athos, Porthos, Aramis and Marci with him, and Anne felt just a little disappointed for some reason.

But...

Suddenly, there was the clacking sound of boots on marble, and skinny arms were encasing her waist. Marci beamed up at her, squeezed Anne one more time, before skipping off to a waiting D'Artagnan and grabbing his hand. The two made their way across the courtyard, Anne smiling at them from the nearest window.

* * *

**Well, leave me a comment if you get the chance and hope you liked the chapter!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Hey everybody! Thanks so much for the reviews, and I'm sorry I did that, but I just got so frustrated and was feeling so down and whatnot. Thanks again for responding so kindly and well, putting up with my angriness. It wasn't even that, it was just kinda a fit I had worked myself into. Anyways, thanks for that, and enjoy this chapter. Review! (haha) :D**

* * *

D'Artagnan, tired but forever determined, walked around the square trying to find the right berry to make the color red. Red, like the sunrise signalling a storm. Red, like war. Red, like fire. Red, like open sores on the sick. Red, like bloodshed, like his parents might be covered in...

_Stop_, he commanded himself, _stop._

Glancing about and still finding no berries, he heavily sighed, frustrated. He had found the colors orange, yellow, green, blue and purple, but no red. It was annoying him to no end, even though Marci said she didn't need red, it...still.

* * *

**You ever have one of these moments? Cuz I have. They're annoying.**

* * *

He had to find this color.

It was quite easy to make colors, really. He had gotten green from the occasional leaf on a tree; yellow by mixing the yellow of fruits and ale together; purple from dried out prunes he smashed up and added water to, and so on, and so on.

It was all simple, really.

But red...

Wait! There, a raspberry bush!

Trotting over to it, and smiling broadly, he plucked off a few and put them in his pack. Starting his walk back the residence of his company, D'Artagnan couldn't help the betraying thoughts that came with this.

_You consider that home...what of your parents? No visits, no promised letters...no protection, no checking in...what kind of a son are you?_

_Shut up,_ D'Artagnan told the voice, but it continued as if he hadn't interrupted.

_Oh yes, and what do your brothers think of you?_

_They love me,_ he argued,_ they all love me. They understand._

_oh do they?_ The voice nagged.

_Yes. Now shut up_. D'Artagnan picked a raspberry from his mouth and popped it in his mouth, the sweet, yet bitter fruit exploding in his mouth. The flavor came soon after, but D'Artagnan could not enjoy it, thinking of what the voice had said.

_Oh do they?_

"Do they?" He pondered out loud, involuntarily popping another berry in his mouth. It reminded him of home. Oh God, home...

Kicking the door open and walking through, he pulled off his pack from his belt and poured the berries into a bowl, mashing them. He put all his concentration in this, not thinking about what might await him back in Gascony...

He finished and put the bowl down next to Marci, who was sitting on the floor with parchment coloring with her fingers. She was actually really good; the picture was of the sunset over the hills in Gascony.

His chest tightened painfully at the sight, and he suddenly felt super claustrophobic. Nodding to Marci who had her head down anyway, he rushed back outside, and when he got there he took deep, gulping breaths.

The wind felt good on his suddenly all too hot skin. He took another deep breath, shutting his eyes, the sun disappearing behind clouds. He could picture his home right then; just on the crest of the hill, and he could imagine his father and he sword fighting until dawn to dusk, stopping only for food or bathroom breaks.

He could imagine running across those fields, chasing Henri and Ceron and Aubin and racing them. He could imagine climbing the bare tree in the summer with Marci, or painting the sides of the house with her.

He wanted to cry, so badly.

But he didn't.

He had to stay strong for Marci, show no weakness to his friends, show he had what it took to be a musketeer. But it hurt, so much.

Caught up in his reverie, he did not notice Constance making her way towards him.

* * *

Constance, after asking to be dismissed early by Queen Anne who happily obliged, she made her way towards D'Artagnan in hopes to comfort him. She knew he was trying to stay strong and show he was brave, but sometimes even the bravest fall.

But when she saw him rush out the door suddenly and start to almost hyperventilate, Constance realized this was worse than she thought.

He shut his eyes and sighed heavily, presumably thinking hard to the naked eye. But to those who knew him, they knew D'Artagnan was lost in a daydream, or in this case it looked more of a memory.

Constance, knowing the better of what he must be thinking about, continued her stride swiftly towards him.

"D'Artagnan," she called softly, and to her surprise he jumped. Composing himself again, he nodded his acknowledgement. "I...erm...what are colors?" She asked awkwardly. What exactly do you talk about when your crush's family could be dead? I mean, surely not all girlfriends have to have these conversations?

That, and the Queen had also dismissed her, saying to find out what he meant by colors.

"Oh," he chuckled, relaxing ever so slightly. "She's very artistic like that, its just paints. Well, not really, its naturally made paints from leaves and such and I've just always been good at making them, that's all."

Oh... well now that Constance really thought about it, that made sense.

"Oh, alright then," She opted for instead, pretending not to have called herself mentally an idiot.

"So..." D'Artagnan muttered, and Constance turned her gaze back to him.

"They'll be alright," She suddenly said, not knowing why or how she was saying this. her mouth had a mind of its own now. "They'll be alright, you'll see."

D'Artagnan nodded his head slowly, and she could tell he didn't believe her.

"You'll see," she repeated again. Still knowing he was unconvinced, she turned towards him fully, her light pink dress swishing around her feet softly, her ribbons bouncing in her blonde hair a little.

Looking at his lips and speaking to them, she said once again, "They'll be alright." He turned towards her, noticing she was looking at his lips; his gaze went to her own.

"Yeah..." He murmured. Silence was not attractive on D'Artagnan, Constance realized. She'd take his horrible pick up lines and cocky jokes and stupid jabs anytime if it would stop this silence.

And then, wondering if this would succeed in making him feel better but doing so nonetheless, she leaned forward softly and kissed him on the lips.

D'Artagnan stood there, shocked, and she got no rise from him. His lips were pink and full and felt like they belonged to her, were meant to kiss her own, molding there like clay. He tasted like berries; sweet, tart, a little bitter but no less tasty.

Finally reacting, he started kissing back, and hesitantly wrapped his arms around her back. She wrapped her own around his neck and fisted her own hands in his wavy brown hair.

This helped, she decided, lightheaded, helped the both of them. She felt like giggling hysterically; this was amazing, this feeling, like she was floating. Dancing on clouds, or something of the sort. Flying.

This was beautiful. He was beautiful.

And in that moment, everything was perfect.

* * *

It had taken D'Artagnan by surprise when she kissed him, yes, but he didn't do anything immediately not because of the surprise, because he wasn't sure what to do.

Would he do something stupid and push her away? Make the wrong move and that was the end of this. He didn't want this to end.

Her lips were soft and sweet, and tasted like cinnamon and apples. D'Artagnan liked apples. They felt like they were meant to be there, like he was meant to be kissed by her.

It was a good thing he didn't need to talk, because his tongue wouldn't have obeyed his commands. It was hard to be around her; she made him dizzy. Yet he found this feeling addicting, and wanted to be around Constance nonstop.

Time could've stopped, and D'Artagnan wouldn't have noticed if someone had stabbed him or on fire, burning to ashes because this feeling replaced everything else. He felt numb, this feeling was just...wow.

It was like hot and cold at the same time, it was like water and fire. He felt like he was floating and falling all at once. It was overwhelming, but it was beautiful.

He loved this, he could stay like this forever. He wrapped his arms around her back, being careful somewhere through the weird feelings to not go too low nor too high. Apparently he had done well, because she deepened the kiss more and wrapped her arms around his neck, and grabbed his hair.

He hadn't noticed he had closed his eyes until he actually opened them, and then saw they had a crowd.

Athos, Porthos, and Aramis were standing there staring at them. Brows furrowing, D'Artagnan would've laughed at their expressions were he not be afraid to end this wonderful kiss.

Athos's mouth was hanging open in shock; Porthos was grinning from ear to ear; and Aramis had his arms crossed, was nodding his head slightly, and had a small smile on his face.

D'Artagnan smiled against Constance's perfect lips, shutting his eyes again. _Who cares_, he thought,_ they can wait._

She broke the kiss first, and when she did, he immediately felt the loss. He wanted the warmth of her lips, the feel of her hands around his neck. He felt cold.

She smirked, putting her index finger to his mouth in a 'sh' gesture, leaned close and whispered, "it's our little secret." Then she turned swiftly on her heel and strode back the way she came.

He stood there, dumbstruck._ It's our little secret..._

He couldn't move, couldn't think. He didn't realize Aramis was in front of him until a hand landed on his shoulder and fingers snapped in his face.

"Hm?"

"Well, that was interesting, lad," Porthos laughed, and D'Artagnan found he could not stop smiling for the life of himself.

The world seemed a little brighter than it had before Constance came, and he re-entered the house with a spark in his eyes and a skip in his step.

* * *

"Tagnan!" Marci said, running up to him and handing him her parchment, "I made you a picture!" Sure enough, it was almost a perfect replica of the sunset over the hills in Gascony.

D'Artagnan smiled genuinely. "It's beautiful, Marce," he said, :Thank you."

She grinned, and nodded. "What now, Tagnan?"

"Whatever you want."

Pondering a moment, Marci suddenly said, "C'mon!" And grabbed D'Artagnan's hand and pulled him out the door.

* * *

**well that was sweet, I was grinning so much when I wrote the part about D'Artagnan and Constance! :D So cute...what is their pairing name? Cuz I'm starting one. Constagnan. Eh. Maybe. D'Arstance? NO, I like Constagnan. What do you think? Well, review, read, wait for next chapter. Whatevs. Keep your heads up! :D**


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello, my faithfuls! I just wanted to thank agian for the reviews and support, and wanted to let people WITHOUT accounts know-you can leave a comment, and it doesn't have to be under guest! Click on that comment bubble and type in a pen name, then comment. IT doesn't immediately make you a member, but at least you know have a thing you can comment with, just not post stories. Okay, here goes!**

* * *

D'Artagnan did wonder how he got into this terrible mess. Honestly, he really had absolutely no idea how he came to be kneeling in front of the Queen, staring at Constance who was staring back like he was suddenly crazy, and Marci was nowhere to be found.

"Well D'Artagnan," Anne said, "What do you have to say for yourself?"

D'Artagnan's mouth opened and closed a few times. "How the heck did I get into this mess?"

The Queen tittered. "Oh D'Artagnan, you weren't loyal to your family, remember? Going off and leaving them behind, forgotten, leaving them for dead."

_"D'Artagnan!"_ Another far off voice sounded from the distance_. "Tagnan, wake up!"_

Oh, so this was a dream. Well that made sense.

_I want to wake up,_ D'Artagnan gritted, shutting his eyes tightly_, wake up wake up wake up-_

And suddenly he was looking at five concerned faces looking back down at him. He smiled in relief; he wasn't sure what that dream was, nor was he sure he wanted to know.

"D'Artagnan, are you alright?" Aramis asked while Porthos pulled him to his feet.

"Yes lad, you gave us quite the scare!" Porthos added, but Athos stayed silent, watching through troubled, thoughtful eyes.

Constance came forward and surprisingly hugged him. "I swear, do something crazy for me like that again and-oh God, thank the heavens you're alright!"

Marci nodded. "Yeah Tagnan, what were you thinking?"

_What the hell did I do?_ D'Artagnan wondered. He pulled away from Constance and looked at everyone seriously.

"What did I do?"

No one answered him.

* * *

After getting an icepack for his throbbing head, and many "Please tell me" s and a lot of answering, "stop it, D'Artagnan"s he finally got the answer he wanted.

Athos sighed, running a hand over his now haggard face, and began his tale.

"You took Marci out to see the city when you saw Constance being harassed by the Cardinal's guards. Of course you, being arrogant and rash, tried to fight off the men on your own, lost focus, and one clubbed you in the back of the head before running like the cowards they are." Athos growled menacingly at the end, making D'Artagnan wince and shrink back.

"Then Marci ran to find us, Constance stayed with you to make sure nothing happened, and when we got there you were still unconscious, moaning something about getting into a mess before your eyes snapped open. It took you a long time to come round lad, we weren't sure if you were alright." Aramis finished instead.

D'Artagnan nodded. "So how'd one manage to club me?"

"I don't know, you being reckless, boy!" Athos snapped. He had been out of his mind with worry.

"Look, I'm sorry," D'Artagnan clipped back. "Not like I would've just let them hurt Constance though!"

"YOU DON'T THINK, BOY!"

"YOU KNOW WHAT, YOU'RE RIGHT, YOU'RE ABSOLUTELY RIGHT ATHOS!" The conversation escalated to shouting, and Constance took Marci out of the room. "YOU'RE RIGHT! MY PARENTS ARE DEAD BECAUSE OF ME, MY BROTHERS ARE DEAD BECAUSE OF ME, MARCI COULD BE DEAD BECAUSE OF ME AND ITS ALL BECAUSE I'M SO FREAKING STUPID!"

Athos completely froze at this, soaking in the boy's features. His eyes were tired and had exhausted rings around them and had a haunted look within them, his face was pale and clammy. He was breathing hard and looked like he was trying hard not to panic.

And D'Artagnan had just made his thoughts plain. He was blaming himself.

Athos wasn't all that surprised. D'Artagnan could be cocky and confident, but the boy wasn't selfish and although confident, he didn't think too highly of himself.

Of course he was blaming himself, why didn't Athos see this coming? He felt like a fool.

Guilt perched itself into his stomach then, twisting it in knots and taking his heart and smashing it. He had just yelled at the boy for something he couldn't control...again.

D'Artagnan was gasping now and sat down hard, and Athos could see there were tears forming in the poor child's eyes.

How could he have been so heartless? The Gascon's family was dead for God's sake.

Feeling sick to his stomach now on his own actions, he swallowed down the feeling and knelt in front of the boy, who's blue eyes were distant and glazed over.

Thinking about something.

Blaming himself again, most likely.

Athos felt like he couldn't do anything right, trying to be the boy's mentor and then fatherly and then distant was not working for him. He wasn't sure when to scold or when to praise; there always seemed to be some flaw that Athos would find, and point out, and D'Artagnan's smile would fade.

Athos hated to see that.

Gripping the boy's shoulders and bringing him out of whatever daydream he had been having, Athos said seriously, "You are not to blame."

"But I-"

"No! Listen to me, D'Artagnan," Athos said, tightening his hold and staring into the hurt sea blue orbs. "Do not just hear me, really listen. You are not to blame. You understand me? You are not a bad person. You're a very good person, D'Artagnan. A good person who has had bad things happen to him. This does not make you bad, or evil, or whatever classification you may put it into. You are not different. You are not to blame."

And then Athos hugged him, and D'Artagnan buried his face into Athos's shoulder.

Sobs followed after, heart wrenching, soul breaking sobs, that shook the boy's frame so hard Athos had to tighten his hold, afraid it might snap his poor companion.

Athos had been waiting for this to happen, for the Gascon's top to blow and it all come out, but he had not expected D'Artagnan to last so long.

* * *

If he thought being on a stakeout was long, Athos didn't know the definition of long. This experience was time stoppingly slow, with the child crying his heart out and Athos only being able to hug him and hoped that this would help, and perhaps make the hurting stop for a little while.

When D'Artagnan did quiet down after what seemed quite a while and his tears had run dry and he had just been dryly weeping, Athos thought he had succumbed to sleep.

But he was proven wrong when the young man sat up from where he had been leaning on Athos's shoulder and wiped at his eyes and face.

"Thanks," he muttered, so softly Athos had to lean in to hear him.

"Anytime, D'Artagnan," Athos replied, gently patting the boy's shoulder and standing. He wished with all his being that he could do more, but he knew he could not.

The boy sniffed and stood, wiping his nose with his sleeve, and called, "Marce!" Marci came bounding through the door, smiling, which made D'Artagnan smile.

"Hi, Tagnan!" She exclaimed happily, and he chuckled.

"Hi, Marci."

D'Artagnan knelt down and looked at Marci which a serious exression on his face.

"Marci," he said, "I have to go out of town for a few days..." Constance suddenly mouthed to D'Artagnan,_ 'I'll take her'_ and he mouthed back, _'you sure?'' _ She nodded. "And you're going to stay with my good friend Constance for the time I'm gone."

Marci grinned at Constance, who smiled sweetly back. D'Artagnan nodded her way, as if saying,_ 'thank you'_ and she shook her head. _'No problem.'_

Wow, they have a whole conversation worked out here, Athos mused, but didn't say anything.

Marci nodded. "Okay, Tagnan." She ran to Constance and hugged her legs.

"Marce, come here and give me a hug," D'Artagnan said suddenly, and Marci did so. D'Artagnan shut his eyes tight, squeezed her for a moment, before nodding and letting go. He opened his eyes, and said, "be good for Constance now, you hear?"

"Yes Tagnan."

"Good. Now go play and have fun. Don't get into any trouble!"

Marci, who was halfway out the door when he said this, called back, "yeah, yeah. No promises!"

D'Artagnan, chuckling, turned towards Constance, who merely kissed him and said, "come back safe." Tied her ribbons from her hair around his neck, kissed him once more, then was out the door.

_What is with that girl and dramatic exits?_ Athos wondered idly.

"Well, I suppose we best be off," D'Artagnan sighed, and Athos agreed.

In about thirty minutes, all bags were packed and loaded onto the horses, and the musketeers were ready to take their leave. After one more goodbye to Marci, D'Artagnan climbed upon Buttercup and they rode away towards Gascony.

* * *

The ride there was a long one. They had stopped for the night and were lying under the stars in an open field, the horses fed and watered and sleeping bags had been unrolled.

Staring up at the stars and thinking of Milady, Athos turned to Aramis. He was sure the religious musketeer was thinking about The Lord and whatever else was up there, whether it be angels or D'Artagnan's family.

Porthos was sound asleep, if his snores were anything to go by. But D'Artagnan was wide awake, arms cradling his head softly, a little smile resting on his lips as he gazed up at the night sky full of stars.

Athos looked up too, and realized there were many more stars than what there were in Paris. He wondered if it reminded D'Artagnan of home.

He turned back to the smallest musketeer, but now his eyes were closed, his head slumped against his shoulder, his hands lying on his chest, and his breathing even. He had fallen asleep.

Athos, surprised how fast slumber had taken hold to the young man, thought that perhaps the stars and night air had helped, being back in something familiar and comfortable.

With this, Athos fell asleep, but not before memorizing how peaceful D'Artagnan appeared in sleep and letting his heart hold it close, never letting himself forget.

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**Well, nice ending I suppose. Click that button reviewers and a new chapter should be up soon! BYE!**


	7. Chapter 7

**warning sad, from Aramis's point of view just to mix things up a little. NO flames plz. Enjoy.**

* * *

Aramis opened his eyes, finding the sun resting right above him. He sighed, pushing off his covers, and glanced to his friends, all of whom were still asleep. He always was the first to rise in the morning.

Deciding he was hungry, Aramis started a fire and watered the horses, then strayed off to find some berries or something. He did not go too far though, in case he was to get lost.

After some time wandering, he found himself a blackberry bush, where he proceeded to pick some off filling his hat before bringing it back.

He waited awhile for his companions to wake, but when they showed no signs of stirring soon Aramis decided to eat without them. He was about to pop a blackberry in his mouth when suddenly something hit his hand hard, making him drop the berry's he was about to tip into his open mouth.

There stood D'Artagnan, a look of panic, fear and anger on his face.

"What are you doing?!" he practically shouted, his voice an octave higher than usual, "are you crazy? Those are dack berries! Aramis, their poisonous as soon as they get past your lips! You're dead within ten seconds!"

Aramis, who as surprised he had so easily mistaken them as blackberries as well as D'Artagnan's anger did not react.

"Oh God, you didn't eat any, did you!?" D'Artagnan asked frantically.

"No, D'Artagnan, I ate none," Aramis replied slowly, hoping to calm the distraught D'Artagnan.

"You're sure?" He persisted.

"yes, I'm sure." Aramis confirmed. D'Artagnan instantly relaxed, sitting down with a thump, and put his head in his hands. "I apologize for startling you, I had not known."

D'Artagnan looked up, his face haggard. "Startling me? Hell Aramis, you scared me half to death!"

Aramis nodded. "I'm sorry."

D'Artagnan exhaled. "It's alright."

"What happened?" Athos said, bolting upright and staring at the both of them intently.

"I nearly ate extremely poisonous, deadly berries. Had it not been for D'Artagnan, I'd be dead."

Athos stared at D'Artagnan in amazement. "You saved him?"

D'Artagnan managed a weak smile. "Don't act so surprised." he said.

"Well done, lad!" Porthos boomed. D'Artagnan merely nodded.

"Why do they look just like blackberries?" Aramis questioned.

"Because its meant to fool you." D'Artagnan said darkly.

No one else said anything.

They made their way towards Gascony again a few minutes later, D'Artagnan offering to find them edible berries, but everyone had lost their appetite. Aramis scolded himself profusely for being so very reckless.

Along the way, Aramis watched D'Artagnan carefully, but the boy usually had his eyes closed and was breathing deeply, enjoying himself.

He had missed this free feeling, Aramis knew. Admiring the on rolling hills of green grass which rustled with shimmering light with even the slightest breeze.. The surrounding fields were covered in wildflowers of all colors and even some yellow wheat. They passed streams and lakes at a leisurely pace, stalling, just basking in the happy atmosphere and the lovely view.

They stopped again that night, D'Artagnan having not spoken since that morning. He was no doubt thinking about his family, with that expression.

Aramis merely sighed, opening up his sleeping bag again, and a long time after lying down did he finally sleep.

The next day, they left in the early morning, Aramis knowing from D'Artagnan's expression he had not slept.

Aramis did not hold it against him.

* * *

They reached Gascony towards the middle of the day, and it looked so much different than Paris. Even though Aramis had never been to the small town, it was painstakingly obvious that the young man had grown up here.

It would sound cliche, but the place was so D'Artagnan. It felt warm and innocent, joyful, and peaceful. There were no quarrels breaking out with anybody, and as Aramis could see, there were many kids climbing trees with other children, or laughing and "dueling" with sticks that were supposedly stand in swords.

There was a cluster of little houses just in the valley of two hills, some with barns next to them and some having two stories. There was smoke curling from the roofs of all of them and Aramis could see many parents and loved ones kissing or playing or just enjoying the company.

Yes, D'Artagnan had grown up here.

Even though the child would never admit it, he wanted someone to look after him. He no longer had his parents to do that, from moving to Paris to the circumstances now- but he wanted someone to look up to, someone to tell him right from wrong and scold him when he deserved it but praised him when he did something prideful.

D'Artagnan clicked Buttercup to a trot down to a very colorful two story house and barn. The side of the barn had been painted various colors and drawings, though Aramis could not see details from the distance he was at.

Following D'Artagnan, who had pulled to a stop in front of the house and unsheathed his sword, they decided to search the house and barn. Aramis and Porthos would search the barn, Athos the grounds, and D'Artagnan his house.

No one disagreed when D'Artagnan asked to search his house alone.

* * *

Aramis and Porthos wandered into the barn where they found everything in ruins. Saddles were broken, reins unbound, hay was everywhere, and no animals were to be seen. The doors over the stalls to the pens where said animals were kept were broken and hanging off the hinges.

Wood planks were strewn haphazardly about, as were countless items that probably could not be saved. Aramis inspected this sadly, and Porthos turned to him and said, "Well, we should get cleaning."

Surprised that he and his friend were thinking along the same lines, Aramis replied, "you get the wood planks and doors, and I'll pick up the items." The two set to work in silence.

* * *

Athos, however, had no such luck as to find as much as Aramis and Porthos did. Finding a few bloody trails signalling a body had been dragged led to nowhere, and hoof prints were scarce.

He wondered how his counterparts were doing, especially D'Artagnan.

The boy had not spoken since the Aramis/berry incident yesterday morning, and it greatly concerned Athos. D'Artagnan usually never shut up, and Athos found the absence of the incessant chatter unnerving.

Sighing and turning back, heading towards the barn where he knew Aramis and Porthos to be, for he wanted to let the boy be alone for a few moments. This was against his better judgement, but he let it be.

* * *

D'Artagnan slowly opened his front door, afraid and fearing greatly what he might find, entered his home hesitantly and shut the door behind him.

Everything was exactly as he remembered it. The wooden table still lay in the center of the room with the chairs gathered around it, those his now vacant in the corner, no longer of use.

The pots still hung from the low rafters of the ceiling and the kitchen was still the same, potato bags laying on barrels left to rot.

Turning to his living room he saw the familiar blankets that were on the floor where he sometimes slept and the rocking chair his father had crafted by hand for his mother just after D'Artagnan was born, but the beautiful piece of work was now slicked in dried crimson blood.

The sight made D'Artagnan want to throw up.

Gulping and turning away, towards his stairs, he slowly ascended them, once again fearing what he should find. Had they been murdered during the night in their beds?

Starting at Marci's room first just in case, he only recognized the painted walls and little mattress resting on the floor where she slept, but no body of one of his family members.

Thank god.

Shutting the door quietly and heading to the next room of where he, Ceron, Aubin, and Henri slept, he opened the door with the same caution as he had with Marci's-

and screamed at the top of his lungs.

* * *

Athos was helping fix up the barn to the best of his ability when he heard it- the scream. It was not a woman's scream of blood curdling, hair stand on end screech, but it was lower, and more masculine. But it was blood curdling nonetheless, because Athos knew who it belonged to.

Telling his friends to stay there and dashing out the door as fast as his legs could take him, he threw open the front door of the house and raced up the steps four at a time.

When he reached the top, he saw D'Artagnan leaning against the wall in a narrow hallway only lit by outside light, clutching his stomach with his eyes tightly shut and tears streaming.

And then he leaned to his left, away from Athos, and threw up.

Rushing towards the young man to help hold him up, Athos managed a glance inside the room and nearly lost his stomach contents also.

There was a boy, maybe ten, was hanging from the ceiling by a noose, covered in crimson blood, rotating slowly as he hung there limp. The boy had brown hair and Athos could only assume blue eyes like D'Artagnan's- the dark, empty place that eyes used to occupy showed nothing.

On the wall, written in blood that had dripped down the wall and onto the floor, was:

_**This is your fault**_

In loopy handwriting. The room itself was in shreds.

Athos dragged D'Artagnan away from the room and back down the steps.

Stopping at the landing, clutching D'Artagnan who was hanging onto him for dear life, lowered him to the ground and cradled him.

D'Artagnan sobbed into his shoulder, Athos feeling the wetness of tears leaking through the thin shirt._ That was terrible,_ was all Athos think_. Terrible, terrible, terrible..._

"It w-was Hen-Henri!" D'Artagnan managed before the sobs claimed him again, even worse than the last time they had been in this position.

Athos just sat there holding the poor child for all he was worth, and didn't say anything.

* * *

They seemed to sit there forever.

Or at least, it felt like forever to Athos.

D'Artagnan had at last quieted down, untangled himself from Athos's grip, and made his way back up the stairs.

Athos, panicked, grabbed D'Artagnan's forearm, but the boy just gently slipped his arm from Athos's grip and continued on without looking back.

Athos didn't follow him.

* * *

D'Artagnan, trying to think through all of his grief, ripped his shirt sleeves off and wrapped Henri's marred face in them, hiding it.

Cutting his little brother down and cradling him gently, he muttered quietly in the soft locks of brown hair, "This is all my fault. And I'm sorry."

Slipping the noose off and getting Henri into new, unspoiled clothes, he cleaned his brother of blood and carried him down the stairs and out the door, ignoring Athos completely.

Going on to the dead tree he and his father had always dueled at, he grabbed a abandoned shovel and lay Henri down softly.

Beginning the long work of digging the grave, he poured his heart, his soul, and his grief into it, until his back ached and his hands were blistered and red.

He finished a long time later, throwing down the shovel, and picking up Henri again gently, he kissed the cold, pale forehead and muttered, "I won't forget."

Before lowering the boy down and piling the dirt on top of the hole and his brother again.

Finding a nice plank of wood and taking another and tying it into place to make a cross, he banged it into the ground as a headstone. It wasn't much, he knew, but it made D'Artagnan feel the littlest bit better than Henri got the burial he deserved, if too young.

Remembering he he had yet to complete the search of his house, he re-entered the dark place, and walked back up the dreaded steps.

But as he passed Henri's room, the words in red were gone, and the noose was taken down. The room was clean and the broken things cleared out.

He knew it was Athos who had done it, and he was grateful.

Walking throughout the rest of the rooms and finding nothing, he descended the steps in confusion, seeking out Athos to ask what had happened.

* * *

Athos, after watching D'Artagnan leave with the small bundle Athos knew to be his brother, went upstairs and slowly began to wipe away the horrible words on the wall. After doing this which took some time, he undid the noose and cleaned the room, disposing of the bloody clothes and ruined objects.

He took the responsibility of searching the rest of the rooms where indeed he did find bodies-but they were fake, stuffed with straw.

Disgusted, he threw these away too, and understood Marci's description. The little girl had not known the obvious difference.

D'Artagnan's other brothers and parents weren't dead. Missing.

Athos walked outside, watching D'Artagnan dig the grave for a while, a look of grim determination and sorrow on his face.

Explaining to Aramis and Porthos what happened and they both understood, they all left D'Artagnan to his grave digging, each in his own thoughts.

* * *

**I know, I'm sorry! I feel sooooo bad! But don't worry, no more death, maybe...no flames please. But I don't think this is my best chapter, but whatever. Please comment and review and all that good stuff, and have a nice, rocking day!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Here's Chapter eight, everybody. This is a sad chapter, and one of those filler thingies. Enjoy.**

* * *

"Marci?" Constance called once again, cupping her hands around her mouth in a vain attempt to make her voice louder.

It was the fifth time in the last three days that Constance had lost the little girl, and Constance was starting to lose it. She was in the royal garden at the current.

"Marci?!"

"Looking for someone?" The voice of none other than King Louis questioned her from behind, and she blushed, turned, and curtsied.

"My Lord," She greeted. "Indeed I am. It seems that D'Artagnan's sister also has a knack for trouble, Your Majesty, and I can't find her."

Louis snapped his fingers. "Why this is no problem," he said, brightening.

"My Lord?"

"I'll just send my musketeers out to get her!"

"Oh, My Lord, that isn't-"

"Nonsense my dear girl, I insist."

"I..."

"Tut tut!"

"Thank you, Your Majesty."

* * *

Louis, after sending out his musketeers to find the young Gascon girl, retired to his room for a while, lost in thought. Though acting like a child sometimes, Louis was actually quite observant when he wanted to be and clever if he set his mind to it.

So it did not take long for him to figure out that Marcelle was staying with that Lady in Waiting- Constance, was her name? While D'Artagnan was gone.

D'Artagnan was brave, Louis knew. He also knew the boy, only a few years younger than he, was compassionate and gentle, though a little cocky and arrogant sometimes. He did have a heart that was in the right place, so willing to serve his country and fight for the right causes.

But the Gascon worried him, somewhat. D'Artagnan had barely contained tears as he had described to Louis the mission in which he wished to take absence, and Louis had, on instinct, instructed the boy to tell him of his findings, which when reflecting, the young King realized to be a bad idea.

The boy was looking for his dead family for France's sake, of course Louis just had to get into that business.

So, sighing at his poorly thought out actions, he merely glanced out his window where he saw four horses and riders just on the horizon. Somehow knowing this was D'Artagnan and crew, he swept out of the room, and into the throne room, sitting there in wait.

* * *

The ride back was long and silent, grief looming over them like a great shadow of a darkened cloud and rain not too far off. D'Artagnan sat there, his eyes more distant than ever and completely unfocused as he swayed with the rhythm of Buttercup's footfalls.

Athos watched this worriedly, near enough that if the young man should fall, he would be able to catch him before he hit the ground and was injured.

Athos, catching a glimpse of D'Artagnan's sea blue eyes, so distant and far off that they could be in heaven up above with his brother and possibly his family, saw that they seemed shattered and broken. Like glass, almost. A defeated, resigned expression in them, as if there was just no more fight left, no fire in his soul any longer.

And it chilled Athos to the bone, more than he cared to admit.

He only ever knew two sides of D'Artagnan- Sarcastic D'Artagnan and Cocky D'Artagnan, in which both cases he needed a firm hand and a slap to reality. Athos had no idea how to deal or handle Sad D'Artagnan or Broken D'Artagnan.

In short, Athos was really just winging the whole damn thing. And winging well, but none the less winging it.

Even when they came to a stop for the night, D'Artagnan was too lost in his own world to notice the stop, and Athos had to literally drag him off Buttercup, still unresponsive. Aramis tried to get D'Artagnan to eat, but he would not respond, only stare into the fire still looking very spacy.

Aramis, giving up, helped guide D'Artagnan to his sleeping bag and lie him down, the boy's eyes slipping shut automatically.

It was startling and incredibly concerning.

Athos hated the person who did this, and swore he would slowly kill them in the most painful way possible, torture them the way they were D'Artagnan. And Athos would laugh.

It was beyond Athos who or what kind of monster would do this to someone like D'Artagnan, kind and loyal and willing to help no matter what. D'Artagnan did go all the way to Buckingham Palace and back to Paris in five days to retrieve the Queen's jewels because Constance asked him too. (But Athos did suspect a kiss or something of the sort was involved). He nearly got shot in the process, fell from three hundred feet to his death, and was hit over the head way too many times to be healthy.

So what would possess a person to do this?

Athos pondered this at he stared at D'Artagnan's expressionless face, before he unwittingly succumbed to sleep.

* * *

Constance, after having Marci returned to her, scolded the girl half heartedly as she hugged her waist. It was careless curiosity, Constance knew, and she knew Marci got that from D'Artagnan.

But she did face the problem when the Queen asked her to assist her that day, and she could trust no one else with the young girl.

So, resigned to the fact that she would have to literally have eyes in the back of her head, Constance made her way towards the palace to her Queen with Marci in tow.

Arriving there and reaching her Queen Anne, Constance curtsied low and stood, eyes directed to the floor in respect.

Marci though, was looking at the Queen and smiling broadly, and threw her arms around the Queen's middle. Anne, startled, and Constance, fearful, Marci merely let go and grinned.

Anne smiled back, and chuckled lightly. "Nice to see you also, Marci," she replied, and Constance breathed. Anne turned to her lady in waiting and smirked knowingly. "Doing a favor for our young D'Artagnan, now are we?"

Constance felt her cheeks redden. "yes, Milady," Constance answered. She could feel rather than see the Queen smile widely.

"Very good," She responded. "Come now, we shall walk through the gardens."

Constance merely nodded and breezed to Marci, "Come along!"

She knew the girl to be following.

In the garden, Constance did try to contain Marci, but she bounced around and giggled excitedly. Constance muttered continuous apologies to her Queen who dismissed them, saying it was no problem. Constance wished she could believe so.

Suddenly, a clear, loud whistle very un-bird like sounded, and Marci looked up startled. She broke into a sprint, and Constance hurried after, but Marci screamed, "Tagnan!" The whole way, while giving off her own call, very tweety sounding.

* * *

When they had woken again, they had traveled for the rest of the day and made it to the border of Paris. D'Artagnan remained as out of it as he had yesterday, and Athos was no longer worried. He was beyond anxious; he was disturbed.

When they did get close enough to the palace (King Louis did want that report ASAP) D'Artagnan suddenly shook himself and blinked owlishly, as if awakening from a long and unrestful sleep, before whistling loudly. It was a sound that traveled far, that echoed everywhere; it was low and soothing, but loud and disruptive too. It was hard to figure out.

Athos stared at the boy in confusion, who had come to a stop and was now just staring out at the market and palace. Then, amazingly, a tweety bird sound was returned.

D'Artagnan spurred Buttercup into motion, racing through the square to the royal gardens. Athos, Aramis, and Porthos followed closely.

Dodging in and out of people, and finally coming to a screeching stop, D'Artagnan hopped off of his steed and ran to the gardens, Athos barely keeping up with him.

D'Artagnan abruptly came to a stop when he did reach the royal grounds, before whistling again. It echoed as it did before, and the tweety bird whistle replied moments later from the left.

Running in that direction and finally hearing the calling of, "Tagnan!" D'Artagnan knelt, opened his arms, and hugged Marci for all life was worth. Shutting his eyes and scrunching up his face in pain, Athos suddenly noticed the tear tracks on the boy's cheeks shining and glistening in the sunlight.

Athos finally understood his unresponsiveness.

If D'Artagnan did, he would lose it. D'Artagnan would lose it completely. Talking about it, trying to not think about it, then having it hit him full force again would be too much.

Athos understood, and although he knew it was not healthy to dwell in such gloomy thoughts and sulk in such grief, he would allow it for now.

D'Artagnan let go of her after she complained, "Too tight, Tagnan!" And smiled at her.

Then, grimacing, D'Artagnan said in a raspy voice, "Give me another hug, Marci." She obeyed, wrapping her skinny arms about his neck.

"Why?"

"Because I really missed you," D'Artagnan said into her bony shoulder, his voice cracking.

"I missed you too, Tagnan."

When Constance did catch up to Marci, she gasped in both surprise and shock. D'Artagnan was haggard and exhausted, and looked a million years older. He looked pale and defeated; he looked dead.

"Give me another hug, Marci," She heard her mostly deceased boyfriend say, and the raspiness in his voice suggested he hadn't talk in a long while. He looked wise, humbled.

Constance feared the worst.

Following him back up to the palace, a horrible sense of foreboding settling in her stomach.

* * *

Louis nearly started when the door was opened. Anne strolled in first, followed by her ladies in waiting and Marci, and then the musketeers.

Louis inspected D'Artagnan carefully, and noticed the tear stains on his cheeks that stuck there like scars, forever visible, never forgetting. He was immediately aware that his report would not be a good one.

Aramis, Athos, and Porthos looked tired, and like they had been up for long nights with worry. Anne had wary concern written on her face, Marci looked oblivious, and Constance looked as if she was waiting for an impending doom.

D'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis knelt at his feet at the throne. Louis gazed down at them.

"Well. What of your family, D'Artagnan?" He asked. "I trust they are well?"

This had been, apparently, the wrong thing to say though; D'Artagnan's eyes flickered up to his own, and Louis saw a shattered heart and a broken soul. He looked hurt, scared. His eyes had filled with tears he dared not shed.

"I..." The Gascon tried, but his voice cracked with that one simple word and he looked down, pursing his lips.

"What is it, Tagnan?" Marci asked worriedly, walking over and taking his hand. He looked at her and smiled, but it merely said,_ "hardest explanation of my life."_

"Uhm..." D'Artagnan muttered, sniffing and obviously trying to get his bearings and come up with something she would understand. "Marci, you remember how Mum and Pap told us about that special place that God lives, and angels fly and play in the clouds?"

Marci nodded, grinning. "Heaven!"

D'Artagnan smiled, his eyes teary. "Yes, Heaven. Well, you know how everyone has to go to Heaven sometime, right?" The girl nodded, and Louis wondered where he was going with this. "Well, Henri's time came, Marci. He's in Heaven now." D'Artagnan's voice spoke unshed tears and unspeakable sorrow.

"That's okay Tagnan," Marci said, no longer smiling but not crying. "He's an angel now."

D'Artagnan hugged his sister, weeping openly now. "Yeah...yeah he is."

**"There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of weakness but of power. They are messengers of overwhelming grief and of unspeakable love."**

** -Washington Irving**

* * *

**I would like to dedicate this chapter and the belief that one day, we are all angels in heaven, to my friend's recently deceased father. He was a firefighter, and died of a blood clot. Vinny, if you're listening, you're amazing, and I hope you've found peace and love. You are truly an angel.**

**We miss you.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Okay, viewers! Here is the next chapter, and I've started reading the original novel! Very good so far, on chapter four, and there are a great many big, complicated words and a lot of really, really, REALLY bad run on sentences (as we all know old english does) but it is good, and not that hard to follow (besides those damn french words that throw me off here and there.) Well, I suggest you read it, but if its too hard I understand too, i'm so exhausted by the end of a page. I started it today this morning and I'm on page nineteen (and if you've seen these pages, that my friends, is a feat in itself.) I'm a pretty fast reader, but dang! THOSE ARE LONG!**

* * *

Constance, after hearing his beautifully sad explanation, nearly broke down in tears. So hard, to tell the young girl who probably wouldn't even remember her brother. And then, what about his other family members? What happened to them?

Constance wasn't sure she wanted to find out.

D'Artagnan found the courage to look up at King Louis with the most heartbroken expression on his face, that Louis's face softened. Sadness, pity, and maybe even sympathy was clear in his eyes.

"You are dismissed D'Artagnan." He said quietly. D'Artagnan sniffed and nodded. Louis got up from his throne as Marci ran to Constance. Louis put his hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder and spoke in the same low tone, "I know it probably doesn't mean much, but...I am sorry for your loss, my dear D'Artagnan. Truly, I am."

D'Artagnan smiled a little, only the tiniest bit, but for Constance it seemed a beacon of hope.

"It means all the world, Your Majesty."

Louis nodded, and his hand slipped from the young Gascon's shoulder.

"Alright then. Go home, do...whatever you need to."

D'Artagnan nodded.

When they got back to the musketeer's residence, Planchet had lunch ready for all of them (Marci included) but D'Artagnan did not eat anything, and Athos had no appetite. He watched D'Artagnan with a thoughtful gaze, a wondering gaze of sorts.

He wished to see that cocky, arrogant smile grace the young man's face, or that twinkle of adventure in his eyes. But he saw nothing, and knew not of the turmoil occurring within D'Artagnan, and could only long for what D'Artagnan used to be.

They sat for the rest of the afternoon in silence, even Marci toned down enough not to disturb the train of thought in which her companions were engulfed.

* * *

Later that night, as D'Artagnan was tucking Marci in on the couch, she asked him for a story. Constance had since accompanied them that night, hoping to coax something-anything- out of her boyfriend, but to no avail. But the conversation went as so:

"Tagnan," Marci said, looking up at him with those big blue eyes, "Tell me a story? Pwease?"

It was the little girl 'please' that got him, Athos was sure, for D'Artagnan pulled up a stool in front of the couch and took a deep breath.

"Buttercup was raised on a small farm in the country of Florin."

Marci brightened. "Buttercup, like our horse!"

D'Artagnan smiled and nodded.

"Yes, like our horse. Now. Let me continue." He took another breath, and Marci gazed at him with curiosity and Constance interest. "Her favorite pastimes were riding her horse and tormenting the farm boy that worked there. His name was Westley, but she never called him that. Nothing gave Buttercup as much pleasure as ordering Westley around." D'Artagnan then looked at Constance expectantly, before she blinked.

"Farm boy! Polish my horse's saddle. I want to see my face shining in it by morning." Constance chimed.

"That's not very nice!" Marci quoted angrily.

D'Artagnan shushed her. "Please don't interrupt," he said softly.

"Sorry." Marci replied.

"As you wish." D'Artagnan directed this at Constance, then turned back to his sister. "As you wish was all he ever said."

Constance, now warming up, said, "Farm boy! Fill these with water...please."

"As you wish." D'Artagnan answered her. "That day, she was amazing to discover that when he was saying 'as you wish' he really meant 'I love you.' And even more amazing was the day that she realized she truly loved him back."

"Wow..." Marci had a love struck look on her face that made Constance giggle. Athos stayed silent in the shadow of the stairway, listening with a keen ear and amusement.

"Farm boy!" Constance said suddenly, and D'Artagnan looked at her startled. "...fetch me that pitcher?"

The young Gascon responded in a whisper, and a soft smile. "As you wish." They leaned in to kiss, but before they could D'Artagnan broke it off and looked at Marci, who let out a moan of 'no!' when they didn't share the moment. He smiled slyly at her. "And now, its time for you to get some sleep."

He kissed her forehead, and whispered, "goodnight, my sweet Buttercup."

Marci giggled. "Goodnight, my Westley."

With that, D'Artagnan left the room, followed closely by Constance, and a very surprised, entertained, and actually quite humbled Athos retreated up the stairs.

* * *

D'Artagnan, through the guilt, torment of nightmares and grief in a large whirlwind circling about him, felt the spark of inspiration and incredibly amount of imagination within this, and immediately complied to Marci's request, sitting down in a chair and beginning to think.

He needed not dwell too long, for like stated, D'Artagnan's imagination was wild and ran free, therefore he came up with the farmgirl idea fairly quickly, and also the idea to use Buttercup's name.

Westley was also another name he used off the top of his head, not extremely symbolic to him but nonetheless important to the tale, for he was, indeed, the hero, and she the heroin.

He was enjoying himself in the tell of this tale, for it distracted him from his other worries and troubles, and merely kept him preoccupied enough to have to invent his storyline instead of brood on the death of his family. He knew Constance to be having fun in herself too, by the giggles he solicited from her, and the radiant smiles she gave when he said something creative.

But that was over and done with now, Marci probably still processing the story and able to picture what little he had told her in her mind's eye, and he gave her this time until she dropped off to sleep, something he was sure he would not be able to accomplish this night.

Constance, now standing opposite him in the kitchen, Planchette long since retired to his chambers and Athos, Porthos, and Aramis having done the same, they were there alone.

She took his hand in both of hers, her own being much warmer than D'Artagnan's, and she began to rub his hand absently, looking at him with an unreadable face.

He stared back, and perhaps some light had returned to his eyes, for he certainly felt some perch in his soul. She smiled, and leaned towards him, kissing him; he merely closed his eyes, and the sudden pain that came crashing over him as a wave on a deserted beach, drowning him, no one there to save him; until she broke her contact with him, and ran her fingers over his cheeks, wiping the moisture that had gathered there without D'Artagnan's notice, nor his permission.

He tried to pull away from Constance's reach, but she stepped towards him, still cupping his face in her hands, her eyes searching his, searching his soul, looking for the pain and saying, 'you can cry in front of me. I shall think no less of you.'

He suddenly lost it, his resolute dam breaking. Tears leaked from his eyes much in the same way as they had when he had been held by Athos, yet this time it was Constance holding him, grounding him, and keeping him from falling into that black abyss of depression that had been threatening his light since the digging of Henri's grave in Gascony.

For that was what this was all about, was it not? The death, or believed death, of his family- all but Marci, who would remember nothing of them at her young age. Oh, the terribleness of it all, why, why him?

His head finally rested on her shoulder as his tears subsided, and he sighed heavily, feeling the sudden emptiness, voidness of emotion, and feeling the drowsiness claiming his limbs. He leaned more and more dependently upon Constance, who helped guide him in front of the fire and lay him down, his head in her lap as she traced un-patterned lines softly over his face.

They traveled from his chin to the bridge of his nose, to his forehead, and he fell asleep to that feeling, and the knowing she was there, and the warmth of the fire caressing his skin.

* * *

**Well, that was very much a fill in chapter. Did anyone recognize the tale? The Princess Bride, one of THE best movies and stories of ALL TIME? NO?! GO WATCH IT! IT IS MY ALL TIME FAVORITE (besides Musketeers, of course!) **


	10. Chapter 10

**Hey guys! I'm sorry this took so long, but like I explained in my author's note, my transformer went haywire and the site crashed and whatever, so whatnot. I finished this as soon as the site went back up just for you guys, once I finished I immediately posted, so I hope you guys are grateful. anyways, here's the chappy!**

* * *

Black Plague (as was his name known and feared by most people) but for now, we will, as readers and writer, call him Cornelius Marmanium, for this was his true name, called only by his family, of whom were all dead.

Anyways, Cornelius, if you will, was pacing with such speed and force one might believe that that was his sole passion in life. But this was not so, and he did have a good reason for the pace and momentum as he was.

He was musing that of a young man called D'Artagnan, of whom had become his person of interest after being recruited by Buckingham to watch him and annihilate him. He had already killed his brother, and had his parents hidden away, but the revenge seemed uncomplete, almost, and therefore Cornelius then determined he needed to kill the source.

So, he had sent a fair warning by his nearly dead servant to D'Artagnan to set the plot into orbit. Now, all he had to do was wait for the young Gascon to catch on (who really was quite slow) and his plan would be accomplished.

His deceased partner-or, rather, his deceased brother, who had been his partner, was in his mind and heart and he mourned him so. This is what had been the motivation to kill D'Artagnan's youngest brother, so he could feel Cornelius's pain. Feel his burning hatred, fueling his search to find the killer. D'Artagnan would only know seconds before his death, but for those few seconds he would be frightened from wits, unable to think, panicky, and he would look at the cloaked hood of which he could not see Cornelius, but he could very easily see D'Artagnan, and the boy would plead with his eyes.

Cornelius smirked slightly as he imagined the death of the horrid boy. It would be so pleasurable, enjoyable, to wrap his hands around that child's skinny neck and feel the life leave his body, the light leave his eyes...

No, Cornelius shook this fantasy from his mind. It was no use entertaining himself with those when the real thing was so close...

You'll think him crazy, but from Cornelius's view, he was a genius, an inventor! he knew all and never did wrong. He was perfect in every imaginable way; thus would, as was many others, be his downfall.

He was, in all fairness also, not just doing this for the fun of it all. There was a very nice sum of money going in his purse should he, (and he promised himself he would) accomplish the demise of D'Artagnan, his supplier was giving him no less than 400 pistoles in all.** (which, for those who know not what pistoles are or their worth, is A LOT of money. I'll explain later.)**

Buckingham and Milady were, of course, depending on him, Cornelius was certain, and they wanted the job done as quickly as possible. Well, thats not how The Black Plague rolled. It was slow, and extremely painful. He had yet to figure out his method, though, for as much as he wanted to strangle D'Artagnan himself, he needed something that wouldn't leave marks.

And suddenly an idea tore through his brain and Cornelius smiled, making the jagged scar across his face stretch menacingly.

_Poison._

**(hate to break momentum again, but everyone remembers that the brother had a scar across his face in the same manner, yes?)**

* * *

D'Artagnan was awoken from his dream suddenly and unceremoniously. It startled him so a muffled scream tore through his throat, and his eyes snapped open, fists at the ready.

But instead of coming face to face with Buckingham (of whom had been the topic of said dream) he was greeted by the smiling face of Marci, who was giggling.

"Shake a leg!" She exclaimed.

D'Artagnan groaned and sat up slowly, cracking his back and rubbing the back of his neck tiredly. A pillow had been replaced where Constance's lap had been supporting his head, and D'Artagnan felt her absence chilling. He stood up and stretched while rubbing where he had kinks from sleeping on the floor in awkward poses.

He walked into the kitchen knuckling his eyes not unsimilar to what a toddler might do after waking up from a nap. He sat down with a thud on an unpopulated stool, picking up a spoon and eating his porridge slowly, not altogether awake yet.

Athos chuckled watching D'Artagnan eat, his half lidded eyes banishing the fog from his brain with gentle, slow blinks. The older man softly shook the younger's shoulder as he threatened a face plant into his mostly devoured porridge. D'Artagnan snapped to attention, his head shooting up from where it had been lowering precariously over his bowl.

Athos chuckled. "Let's eat the food, not wear it D'Artagnan," he said. D'Artagnan, now fully aware, laughed.

"I'll do my best, Athos." They descended into silence, but both stared at each other in pleasant surprise, and D'Artagnan a held a little hope in his own gaze.

The moment was interrupted by Marci. "Tagnan!" She cried, "tell me more of what happens with Buttercup and Westley!"

D'Artagnan smirked mysteriously. "You'll have to wait until tonight at bedtime," he said.

"Aww!" Marci whined in reply. "But I want to hear more now!"

"My lips are sealed until tonight," D'Artagnan insisted. Marci pouted for a moment, but brightened and said:

"Is Constance coming over?"

Athos turned from the girl to her brother, who blushed in his ears and cheeks. Athos, in turn, smiled at D'Artagnan's reaction.

"uhm...we'll see, Marce."

The girl nodded. "Okay!"

* * *

The King was not usually one to do things from out of the blue, everything he did was for some reason or another and usually of his benefit.

But the irresistible urge to throw a sudden ball caught his extreme interest, and he could not banish the idea from his mind. So, making up his decision, he would throw a masquerade.

Grinning to himself and informing the Queen, (who did indeed love dancing) he sat back and decided he would also invite the musketeers and D'Artagnan. The Gascon needed some fun right now and in all honesty...Louis was quite anxious to show them off.

So, he sent a messenger to inform the musketeers that they were welcome to attend, before he also sent a taylor to make new dress for them all. Couldn't have his musketeers looking like common folk, now could he?

_Yes,_ Louis thought smugly, writing letters to all of his noble friends_, this would be quite a masquerade indeed._

* * *

The messenger delivered the message to the Queen, who was delighted to say the least; and upon confiding about this beautiful dance to her ladies, she noticed a change in Constance immediately after the messenger also explained the musketeers were invited.

The Queen, devising a plan for her most loyal lady instantly, decided to play, what was later called, matchmaker.

So, after Constance was dismissed early, she explained in detail her plan to the other ladies in waiting, who exchanged glances excitedly and tittered with happiness. They then began discussing which color looked best on Constance, and after a long debate decided lavender purple.

The Queen, having plenty of silk at her disposal, sent for the taylor at once to start making such a dress. The dress, they were all sure, would knock the young D'Artagnan off his feet and he would be so impressed he would feel faint.

All of her ladies began, after the silk had been delivered, giving specific details to the taylor other than Constance's measurements (which they had for some unknown reason.) By the time the taylor actually had the courage to speak up for himself, the dress was done all excepting the trim.

When the dress was done, it looked as so: It was a wonderful light, floaty lavender purple, with a beautiful top embroidered in little diamonds the Queen just had laying around. There was also an amazing diamond brooch at the waist, and it made the whole dress. it was frilly and poofy at the bottom, and had little sparkles laying about.

It would look beautiful on Constance, they were all sure.

The Queen, finally picking out her own dress and smiling to herself, wondered when the masquerade would take place. Either way, they would be ready, and Anne was sure it would be an interesting dance indeed.

* * *

A dance?

A dance.

A dance!

He couldn't dance.

Constance was invited to that dance.

Aw dammit.

He. Couldn't. Dance.

What was he supposed to do? He couldn't even shuffle his feet for the life of himself! Sure, D'Artagnan was good and graceful and agile when it came to swordplay, but..that was about it.

_Aw damn,_ D'Artagnan thought sourly; and now he had to ask Athos or Porthos or Aramis and ask them to teach him how to slow dance and...aw man, that would be _so_ awkward.

He wasn't doing it. His pride just absolutely wouldn't let him.

But then he couldn't go to that ball, and _Constance_ was going...

"ARAMIS!"

"Okay," Aramis explained for the fourth time, "you just need to put your hand at my waist, and then hold my other one. That's it, there you go D'Artagnan. Now, I'll lead for the fourth time, but D'Artagnan, you are the man, and she is the woman, and men lead. You're going to have to stop stepping on my toes sometime, and no offense to you of course, but I would like it to be sooner rather than later."

The kitchen had been cleared of the table and chairs, and Athos, Porthos, Planchet, and Marci were watching the duo from the other room trying to suppress all out hilarics. It was true; D'Artagnan did not, for any circumstances whatsoever, dance. It was really, really funny to try to watch the young man coordinate his feet while keep his hands in the right places and then move in the right movement and keep his eyes up from his feet and not break all of Aramis's toes...

Most, which Athos was certain, were already broken. Oh well, this was hilarious, and even more ammunition for the next time D'Artagnan decided to comment on something of Athos.

"Alright, lets try this again," Aramis said with a small exhausted smile, "And one, two, three, four; one, two, three, four...there you go D'Artagnan, you got it!" Then, in the most subtle way possible, Aramis let D'Artagnan lead.

He was actually extremely good for someone who had only learned to dance that day, and even better after some coaxing from Aramis. That time, he managed to perfect the box step, keep both hands firm, and not step on Aramis's feet.

"Amazing, good job D'Artagnan!" Aramis praised, and D'Artagnan grinned after they had stopped the dance.

But then, the young man turned rosy red and said, "thanks for...everything."

Aramis smiled a little. "You're quite welcome D'Artagnan."

Then, Marci bounded forward, grabbed his hands, and squealed, "Dance with me, Tagnan!"

D'Artagnan bowed, lifting Marci so she was standing on his own feet, before grabbing one hand and placing the other on her shoulder (she was far too short for him to put it on her waist.) Then, he slowly box stepped, smiling when she laughed, still standing on his feet which were guiding her.

It was a cute bonding moment, Aramis smiled, and Athos agreed silently.

A knock on the door brought them all from the mood and Planchet answered it, only to find the message from before. Since we will be mentioning him many times throughout this story, his name is George, but what he looks like and his last name are unimportant.

"His Majesty apologizes for the late notice," the messenger stated, "But seeing as many of the guests his Majesty invited are just seemingly in Paris, the masquerade is tomorrow night at five o'clock."

"If I may ask, who is attending?" D'Artagnan inquired.

"Well, Monsieur," the messenger replied, "M. the Cardinal, M. de Treville, Madame and Monsieur Trouiselle, M. Athos, M. Porthos, and M. Aramis" (at this, noticing his blunder and the ones he spoke of were in the inquirer's company, blushed and continued) "Duke of Buckingham-"

"He's in Paris?!" D'Artagnan interrupted panickedly.

"Yes, Monsieur, indeed he is," George answered. After a look from Athos, D'Artagnan settled down, but did not let the matter rest.

"Yes, that will be all," Porthos stated, "thank you!" And then he ushered the young man George of twenty five out.

"He's back?!" D'Artagnan exclaimed once George was shut out. "What is he doing back? What about-"

"Silence, boy!" Athos said harshly, and D'Artagnan fell quiet so quickly Athos heard his teeth clink together. Athos sighed, realizing he had lost his temper again. The mere mention of Buckingham aroused painful memories of Milady.

Looking at D'Artagnan, who was looking at him warily, Athos knew he had lost any ground or any connection he had earned with the boy that morning. Athos felt extremely frustrated. Could he do nothing right?

"I'm sure the King invited him or something of the sort," Aramis said, stepping carefully between the two and eyeing Athos cautiously, which Athos chose to ignore. "No need to panic."

D'Artagnan sighed. "You're right," he muttered, "and besides; its not like Buckingham holds anything against us still, right?"

Aramis, Porthos, and Athos exchanged a glance. Uh, right...

* * *

But, what George had not managed to say when Aramis cut him off, was that a lord named Cornelius Marmanium was a highly esteemed guest invited to the masquerade also.

* * *

**Ooooh, what is going to happen to our young Gascon? OKIZAY! Please, please, please leave me a comment my peeps, please...I want one...really bad...Cuz I'm super proud of this chappy...and...I like comments...**

**Uhm, well, yah, okay that's kinda it. OH! I'm on the thirteenth chapter of musketeers (losing power gives you lots of candelight reading time) and it's getting good! Constance has asked D'Artagnan to go on the quest to London to retrieve the jewels, and D'Artagnan has just told Athos, Porthos, and Aramis about it, and they were like "HELL TO THE NO!" but then Athos was like "Wait, we're meant to serve the king, so we shall go were we are designated to kill, and go and be killed." It was soooo funny. Athos is really different in the book, actually. But, if I tell you, it will change your view forever, and then you'll never look at him the same way again, so unless you ask I won't tell. Ugh, I'm going to bed now, its late, I'm tired...GOODNIGHT CALIFORNIA! And Britian, and Spain, and Canada, and France, and Italy, and Mexico, and the rest of the provinces and states...uhm, GOODNIGHT EVERYBODY!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Hello, my friendly birds! BlackBandit is here once again! And this, let me tell you, was a pain in the ARSE to write. And in the Three Musketeers book, Constance has been kidnapped! BAM BAM BAAAAM! OH NO! WHAT EVER WILL SHE DO! Well, our young D'Artagnan is working the case for sure! There is not much mention of Marci in this chappy, it is rather a Constance/ D'Artagnan D'Artagnan/Athos bonding chapter, so yah...have fun reading my pretties...**

* * *

D'Artagnan put his mask on. Louis had issued all the Musketeers a mask, to 'keep the theme' or something. Aramis's mask was deep green, his eyes surrounded by white fabric. Athos's mask was a dark blue, with swirls of a lighter blue on his cheeks. Porthos's mask was an almost gold color, with splashes of orange found throughout.

D'Artagnan's own mask was black, covering both his eyes and resting on his nose. It had silver designs covering it. All Musketeers had black capes and outfits, swords at the ready, just in case.

Marci was given a pale yellow and cream dress, and matching mask. She kept Constance from him, refusing to even tell him the color. The only thing she said was that Constance would blow him away.

He was more than excited, more than nervous- actually, he was feeling a little sick now that he thought about it._ No, he would not be sick_, he promised himself fiercely. He would not! This was his and Constance's night, alone, dancing, at a real party, together. He would not screw this up.

He was actually pretty confident about his dancing; Aramis had showed him and he had gotten down the simple steps, so as long as he didn't do anything stupid or get too cocky and try something really, really complex, which was pretty much anything other than the steps Aramis had showed him...he would be okay.

Yet another man came up to him to shake his hand. This one had black hair and green eyes. "Hello, my name is M. Troumoure," he introduced.

D'Artagnan nodded, shaking the man's hand. "D'Artagnan."

"Oh, I know who you are," M. Troumoure said, "Louis has not stopped about you all night!" D'Artagnan laughed nervously. "I heard you took on forty swordsmen. Impressive."

D'Artagnan chuckled nervously again. "It was nothing, and I had help." He tried to divert attention away from him, for it was awkward.

The man let out a bellowing laugh. "Nothing? Oh listen to the lad! So modest!" He shouted to the people around, who paused in their chatter to look at him. D'Artagnan was mortified to realize his cheeks were glowing a bright rosy, which only made them grow redder.

"Ah, lad, so good natured." Troumoure said.

"Thanks," D'Artagnan replied quietly. Oh did he feel so out of place, this was terrible! Monsieur Troumoure patted him on the back once more and then walked away slowly. D'Artagnan searched around, looking for Constance; but she couldn't be seen.

He sighed, scratching the back of his head absently, before clicking his tongue and strolling around some more, looking for someplace to fit in. Find Aramis or Athos or Porthos, he figured, nodding. But as he approached the dance floor, he noticed Porthos and Aramis dancing with two woman, and they were both smiling and laughing. Athos was nowhere to be seen.

D'Artagnan, sighing again internally but happy for his companions all the same, he turned away to see if he could find Athos. When he had spent a good fifteen minutes searching, however, and found nothing, he gave up.

Another noble popped up out of nowhere and attempted to engage him in conversation, which he did successfully. They talk for a long time about many things before the noble went to waltz off with someone else.

D'Artagnan turned around, and nearly squeaked in fear, but only allowed himself a gasp in surprise. For there, standing not three feet away from him, was the intruder from the other night that Athos had killed!

But, the man smiled nicely, and D'Artagnan realized that, although startlingly similar, they were not the same. The man's face was a bit thinner, and his eyes a bit more haunted; but he did share the same icy blue eyes as the vagabond, and the same brown hair. Hell, they even had the same scar running down the same side of their face...

"Bonjour, Monsieur D'Artagnan," the noble said, sticking his hand out for a shocked yet nonetheless pleasant D'Artagnan to take, "my name is Cornelius Marmanium. I am so very pleased to meet you."

D'Artagnan smiled, squeezing the hand and returning the phrase, before dropping it from his grip instantly. There was something unsettling about this person, but what, D'Artagnan could just not put his finger on. He had a green mask embroidered with little blue swirls in his left hand.

"So, I hear you work for the highly esteemed King?" Cornelius Marmanium said conversationally. His voice was the perfect example of politeness and kindness, as well as sustained curiosity but not a prissiness that D'Artagnan immediately viewed as suspicious.

The man grinned a perfect smile and D'Artagnan replied, "indeed I do."

"That must be exciting, a young man like you." Cornelius seemed to had conjured up a wine goblet from nowhere.

"Well, yeah, I mean...It's not all fun and games."

The man choked on his wine. "No, no I wasn't assuming so, my boy!" The man said warmly. "I was merely stating that you, being a young man, just was likely a thrill seeker."

"I suppose..." D'Artagnan said after a moments pause of thoughtful consideration. Cornelius clapped him on the back.

"So, is there someone you are trying to impress tonight, son?" He said this good naturedly and said "son" like he was a grandfather speaking to one of his favorite grandkids.

D'Artagnan felt his cheeks flush. "I, well...no?" He did want to retain at least some dignity this night.

"You say it like it's a question," Cornelius stated, putting his arm around D'Artagnan's shoulders and taking a sip of wine before continuing. "Woman like men who are cool, and confident, and sure of what they want."

"Actually," D'Artagnan replied thoughtfully, "I think she rather prefers those pale, scrawny, expressive types..."

"Besides the point," Cornelius waved him off. "As long as you know what you want, nothing can go wrong kid." He said 'kid' like he said son, like it was a pet name but D'Artagnan was still his equal.

"I..." D'Artagnan did not put much confidence in this advice, but smiled. "Thanks."

"No problem, my boy." Then he held out another wine goblet for D'Artagnan to take. D'Artagnan accepted it, and nodded his thankfulness. "To your good health, my young D'Artagnan."

D'Artagnan nodded, raising his glass a little. "And to yours." And then they both raised their glasses to take a sip while Cornelius walked away, but the rim of the goblet only touched D'Artagnan's lips as he drew it back in astonishment.

A gorgeous woman had just entered the room. She was wearing a lilac purple dress, and a purple face mask that was adorned with purple roses and petite jewels. Her blonde, slightly curly hair was up in a ponytail, and she was wearing purple and pink ribbons that looked oh so familiar...

She halted her step before him, and slowly withdrew her mask. D'Artagnan stood there, utterly breathless, but he wasn't sure if it was from amazement or something else. His chest was strangely constricted, and it felt like he wasn't getting enough air. But wait a minute...it was Constance!

She smiled, and stepped towards him a little while he began to pant. Something was definitely wrong; he could feel it. She was about to say something when D'Artagnan's throat constricted painfully and black was at the edge of his vision. He teetered on the ledge of the blackness before letting go completely and plummeting into the unconscious depths.

* * *

"D'Artagnan!" The shout was from Athos, the gruff voice known everywhere. Constance just stood there in a kind of open mouthed, silent scream, shocked. Athos hurried to the boy's side and was quick to turn him over, were he found a sight that would haunt him for the rest of his day, he was sure.

D'Artagnan was as pale as a ghost, and his breathing was unable to distinguished nor was it heard. His eyelids weren't even fluttering, and he looked utterly lifeless. Athos unsheathed his sword and held it under the boy's nose (if you're wondering why, I'll explain) but there was no breath on the blade.

Athos started to panic, saying hoarsely, "D'Artagnan?" before his head went on the boy's chest to check for a heartbeat, and to count them.

_thump thump...thump thump...thump thump..._

It was so irregular at a mere fourty seven beats per minute Athos nearly cried, but withholding the tears that actually threatened to spill, he shouted as best he could while holding back the crack in his voice, "Aramis! Porthos!"

They seemed to apparate out of thin air, Aramis immediately kneeling at the boy's side across from Athos. He checked the pulse, which was irregular, and then put his ear to D'Artagnan's chest to check his heartbeat, and then peeled back an eyelid to find his eyes rolled into the back of his head.

"He needs a physician," Aramis said quietly, fear there. "I fear he's passing to the other world, the Kingdom of Our Lord."

Athos ruggedly screamed, "Send for a physician double time!" And many people scrambled to do as told, partially because of the sheer direness of the situation, the other reason for Athos's fierce glare that would make even the bravest cower.

In an unrealistic amount of time it was so fast there was a physician in front of the young man as well, and he ordered the guard that sent him to reach into his back and get him something in a clear jar with a glass cover, as well as the smelling salts.

Athos grabbed his young companion under the arms, his friend still limp, and leaned D'Artagnan against his chest, D'Artagnan's limp head resting on his shoulder. The physician turned back and nodded his head in gratefulness before holding the smelling salts before D'Artagnan's nose.

The boy gave a jerk and a cry, and Athos was forced to wrap his arms around the child as he started to convulse. The seizure last no more than minutes, but for Athos it seemed to drag on forever, more than any crying fit ever could.

At last the boy quieted down, and Athos looked at him while the doctor recorded his heartbeat, breathing, and pulse again and nodded, satisfied.

"They're all back to normal, the convulsions ran their course and turned out for the better." He stated, and Athos could've kissed him. But, of course, he didn't; that would've been weird.

D'Artagnan gave a weak cough from were his head was now in the crook of Athos's elbow, and his eyes managed to drag themselves open. "Wha-?"

Athos silenced him with a look, and said, "We don't know. Just relax."

D'Artagnan shut his eyes tight, and it looked as if he was almost trying to remember something. "M-m-my, my drink..."

"Relax D'Artagnan, we will get you something," Aramis said, and Athos nodded, Porthos handing him a glass of wine.

"No!" D'Artagnan exclaimed, sounding annoyed. "The-the drink I- I _was_ drinking..."

"D'Artagnan, how are we supposed to-"

"No!" D'Artagnan said again, louder, and some snickers came from the guests Athos chose to ignore; why was the boy being so stubborn? "Ch-check if-if it was l-l-laced..."

Athos stared at his companions before scanning the room; anything that might look out of place...there! A crest on one of them! "Check that one," he commanded, pointing, and Aramis hustled to look inside the full glass.

He sniffed it, and then said, "It is laced! I'd recognize that scent anywhere!"

"With what?" Most everyone asked.

"Dack berry juice." Aramis said grimly and quietly. There was a chilling silence.

* * *

D'Artagnan opened his eyes blearily, confused, and found everything out of focus. All he knew was he was comfortable, warm, and did not want to move. He sighed, and opened and closed his mouth a few times, it being dry and a fuzzy feeling on tongue.

"Here D'Artagnan, open your mouth again, its water." He did, and felt something cold and relieving poured into his mouth down his throat. It soothed his mouth and felt good on his tongue, and he greedily drank. "Stop, relax, it will be here."

D'Artagnan obeyed, unsure of who the voice belonged to. Everything was weird and very distorted. But, he could only imagine who might say that, and with hope shining in his voice he asked, "Athos?"

There was a pause before someone quietly answered, "yes," before D'Artagnan felt himself being propped up. He hadn't even realized that he had shut his eyes until he reopened them.

Sure enough, there was Athos, sitting in a seat and looking quite exhausted with a cloth in his left hand and a a glass of water in his right. D'Artagnan wondered if he had been sitting at his bedside all night, and felt strangely touched.

Speaking of last night...

Everything came rushing back to him, and he was bombarded by his memories. The noble, what was his name? And Constance...aw, Constance! He had missed the dance, surely! But, wait, then...what? Darkness, but he remembered bits and a little of what came after, he thought. He remembered someone saying something about berries.

"What happened?" He asked.

Athos looked uncomfortable. "How are you feeling?" He asked very gently, and D'Artagnan marveled at this change.

"Like crap," D'Artagnan answered flatly. "Now, why are we avoiding my question?" Athos didn't respond immediately, and D'Artagnan was amazed that he had not been hit upside the head for talking with such rudeness.

"You...were poisoned on Thursday," Athos said, rubbing the back of his neck, "it was in your cup."

"You say Thursday like its been a long time," D'Artagnan said carefully.

"Its...its Sunday, D'Artagnan," Athos said cautiously.

"SUNDAY?!"

"Yes, Sunday," Athos replied absently. "Do you think you could stomach some breakfast?"

He had gone four days without food, it was trusted D'Artagnan was hungry, so Porthos sent Planchet up with a bowl of porridge, figuring D'Artagnan needed something light. When he finished eating, he handed the ready Aramis his bowl with a sleepy, "thank you" and let Athos lower him back down onto the pillows and tuck him in.

"Night." D'Artagnan said with a voice full of sleep, before dropping off completely.

After making sure D'Artagnan was fully asleep, Athos said back, "Goodnight, D'Artagnan." Then, checking his companions had gone back downstairs and were not watching, gave his young pupil a swift kiss on the forehead.

* * *

**Well, there it is my bubbly bubbles! Hope you have a good day, and...don't mistake evil berries with blackberries...because...you could be poisoned by an evil assassin...maybe...OH! All medical things are based off of my information off the top of the head, I am not studying to become a doctor, obviously, so...yah...**


	12. Chapter 12

**Hello my friends! I do apologize for the late update, I'm just busy and I've been working so hard, and this STUPID CHAPTER didn't want to be written, the stubborn thing. So, here I am again, having worked on this for days and days, and I promise I haven't forgotten about my blessed viewers! so please, enjoy this terrible fill in chapter.**

* * *

"I'm so bored!" D'Artagnan complained for the fourth time.

"Hush up and eat your lunch," Athos commanded. D'Artagnan looked at him with a defiant expression, but Athos gave him one of the stern_ "really? You are really going to try me right now?"_ looks, and D'Artagnan scowled and began to spoon his porridge.

D'Artagnan was already growing tired of this bedrest, and wished he could move around. He had lots of pent up energy, being a young lad which was previously stated many times, and was not yet settled into adulthood.

"Athos!" He whined, and Athos turned to him sharply.

"If I ever hear you whine like a five year old again, I shall strap you to the bed and make you immobile." D'Artagnan's mouth shut so fast, Athos heard his teeth clink together. The elder musketeer smirked in spite of himself. "And may I remind you you were poisoned and there is therefore someone after you, still on the loose?"

There was always the evidence of the crest on the goblet; but the thing was, no one knew what it stood for nor to whom it belonged, so they had absolutely no leads. D'Artagnan encountered all he remembered of that night, which was talking to Troumoure and seeing a man with an identical face to that of the intruder, but that was all.

It was certainly something to ponder while sitting in bed, doing absolutely nothing. But D'Artagnan noted with satisfaction that he didn't want to cry anymore about his family. He wanted revenge on the person who had done this, and entertained himself with fantasies.

Athos kept him company a lot, talking about this and that absent mindedly or sitting there silently allowing D'Artagnan to think, or telling stories of the previous missions the musketeers had gone on. Aramis read the bible to him, and he and Porthos played cards. Marci would come in and ask him to complete the story, which he gladly did, and he had finished the whole tale by the next day.

Constance visited on the sixth day. She smiled softly at him, and he radiated happiness. She strode into the room and took his hand.

"Trust you to faint just before we dance," she mocked.

"Hey, not fair. Its not everyday a scandal like that arises and causes mischief, so you're welcome. And I did not_ faint,_ I collapsed valiantly and with style." She laughed lightly.

"Face it D'Artagnan, you fainted."

"I did not!"

"Did to."

"I did not!"

"Did to!"

"I did-"

"Hey!" Athos shouted from the doorway, and when he caught their attention he continued at a more reasonable volume. "Now, seeing as I'm clearly the adult in this situation, I will be the third party." The teens looked at him expectantly. "D'Artagnan fainted." Then Athos was gone.

"Athos!" D'Artagnan called angrily after him while Constance laughed.

"I win!"

"That is not-" But the young man was cut off by Constance's lips against his. Pleasantly surprised but still noticing the tears that trekked down her cheeks, he pulled her away gently and cupped her face in his hands, looking at her tear filled, beautiful blue eyes. "Constance?"

She blinked, tears following the tracks the others had made. "I just...I don't want to lose you!" And then it was full out hysterics.

D'Artagnan pulled her down so she was lying next to him and his arms were around her, her head in his chest. He muttered reassurances throughout the cry that, D'Artagnan knew, she must've bottled up for the longest of time, and he was just there.

She sniffed, and then wiped at her eyes and gave him a watery smile. "Thanks." She said, kissing his cheek in gratitude.

"Anytime." He replied, a bit shocked. She kissed him in farewell, explaining that she had to get back to her duties, whisked out the door and was gone. D'Artagnan sat there, hands in his lap, in a shocked silence.

* * *

D'Artagnan was fed up with sitting around, no matter what Athos said. He just wanted to walk down the stairs to stretch his legs, is all, get some food in the kitchen for once from these past days and maybe sit by the fire instead of under a mass of blankets.

So, pushing back the covers and swinging his feet over the side of the bed, he placed them cautiously on the wooden floor, waiting a moment. When no shouts of 'get back in bed, boy!' came and he got used to something under his feet besides mattress again in days, he stood, which proved to be a mistake. He went toppling backwards onto the bed, having not used his legs in days so they felt like jelly beneath him.

"Dammit," he cursed softly, then glanced around seeing if anyone had heard. He did get scolded like a mere child by his mentors about using foul language. It annoyed him.

Trying again and succeeding in staying standing this time, D'Artagnan used the wall as a steadier and guide as he made his way silently into the hallway and down the steps safely. Well, three quarters of the battle over.

But D'Artagnan grew worried as the world starting to blur as he became quite dizzy and very queasy from expending energy. Energy, D'Artagnan realized, he had thought he had in his boredom, but the idea he had manifested was obviously not true. Athos was right, he should've stayed in bed and counted the dots on the ceiling again.

So, making his way carefully over to the couch and plopping down in it, his head barely hit the pillow as he was out like a flame on a candle that had just been snuffed by the user.

* * *

Athos tried his very best not to scream at the young man passed out on the couch. He knew the boy had been feeling cooped up and had been extremely edgy about it, but had Athos not said, specifically, stay in bed? The child simply did. Not. Listen.

However, it was not as though Athos had really expected him to, anyway. D'Artagnan was a man of action, and did not like sitting around for long. So, sighing, he fetched a blanket and lay it over his young man, and stroked the fire which had been going down. He called on Planchet for a goblet of wine, and sat in the vacant chair staring into the fire and checking occasionally upon his companion, deep in thought.

Those few days that D'Artagnan was out of it were surely the scariest, most worrisome days of Athos's life, he was sure. He sat by the boy's bedside, watching over him, and even talking to him when he got tired of sitting there in silence. He confessed some things that troubled him and admitted what he was afraid of, only because he knew the boy wasn't listening and there was nothing else to drone on about other than the weather. But he did not speak of Milady De Winter.

D'Artagnan shifted into a more comfortable position, startling Athos out of his thoughts as he studied the shrewd Gascon carefully. He looked so young, in sleep, so innocent and unblemished unlike when his face was so long when he was awake. Athos wished that D'Artagnan did not have such a burden as his family or the Duke of Buckingham or an assassin on his shoulders and just had time to be his age, to see and discover and get into trouble (yes, Athos even supported the idea of trouble if it would make D'Artagnan feel his young age.)

Tucking the young man in more securely and putting down the wine goblet, Athos sighed, and realized he would prefer tea. So, he called upon Planchet again (who had looked extremely startled and had gone so far to ask if he was feeling well when Athos requested the beverage) and Athos sipped at this more carefully. He had not drunk wine during the days of D'Artagnan's unconsciousness and found himself rather fond of mint tea, once Aramis introduced it to him. He knew he was going soft and thought he would care about what that did to his image, but he was wrong.

So he sat there, looking at D'Artagnan and staring into the fire deep in thoughts of Milady, until his companions came and roused him thankfully from his painful, bitter memories.

* * *

**And that my friends is the amazing example of a fill in chapter. Well, I got about 3 hours of sleep last night so I'm going to go take a nap and then maybe watch a movie or read more muketeers or read Merlin fanfiction, any of the three really...bye, and have a good day!**


	13. Chapter 13

**hey guys! So I hit a block with this story, then all of a sudden I was like, HOLY CROW IDEA OMG! So that's what happened here. So today I was in my room playing Rockband, and my friend was all of a sudden like, "WHOA!" So I pause the song we were doing (Are You Gonna Be My Girl) and I was like, "what?" She said, "I thought it was a fuzz ball, but it was a bug and it went into the other room!" So now I'm like, "c'mon, lets investigate!" So me and my friend are terrified of bugs, we absolutely hate them, and she's like "It went over there!" So we go over there and I'm looking, and then all of a sudden a giant centipede thing is right in front of my face. Viewers, I'm talking only a little bit smaller than you're palm, that's how huge it was. So now I'm like, "HOLY CROW OMG!" and she's like, "I KNOW!" so now we run to the doorway to get shoes on (we were only wearing socks) and I'm like, "LET"S GO!" so my friend and I go back into the room and now the bug is gone, so we start freaking out. So I'm like,"Maybe it went under the TV?" And I duck down to check, my face level with the floor. Nada. So my friend is like, "you know, if we were detectives, you'd be the one to check the rooms for evidence and I'd be the one flashing my gun at everyone I meet." I nodded. Then my friend pulled out her phone and turned on her flashlight app, handing it to me to check BEHIND the TV, which is where the scary centipede was. **

**So in the end, we had a dead centipede on my friend's favorite Convers pair of shoes. It was a very very traumatic experience for her, and she made wipe it off. Well, that's the only eventful thing that happened today, besides us beating the game of 63 songs in a record time of four hours. YAY! Onto the story, thanks for listening! BTW I'm not proud of this first section right here.**

* * *

Cornelius growled, angry as hell. They had escaped somehow. They had escaped! The two boys, the two annoying, mindless children, had escaped! It was unfathomable, in the least.

He strode quickly to the secluded chamber and bursts through the doors, seething. Dangling from the ceiling in a cage were the Gascon's two parents- thank G-d they were still here.

"How?!" he raged, pacing across the floor with his hand on his chin, "HOW?"

"Ha!" The father, Bertrand, cried triumphantly. "You'll never win!" the mother quietly shushed him, clinging desperately to his arm.

Cornelius, finding not killing the man right there taking all of his self restraint, turned on his heel and exited before his impulsive nature got the best of him.

* * *

D'Artagnan sat on the ground outside, drawing in the dirt besides Marci. The sun was finally shining through the thick rain of the past few days, and he and Marci were taking advantage. A slight breeze came through the fall air, but it felt good for the hot sun was at both their backs; the street was teeming with many different people, dressed in many different garments that Marci liked to point out and make fun of, D'Artagnan laughing right along with her.

D'Artagnan had finally recovered enough from the poisoning to be able to move about more and not have to sit in bed all day, but he was still relieved off his patrol for M. de Treville, which depressed him greatly even though he knew he still needed the time. Athos had given him an ear full about over expending energy the day he had woken up on the couch with Athos towering over him, and he had understood the older man's fury, wanting to counter it, but too spent to put up much of a fight.

But that was a good two days ago, and he had stayed in bed, quiet, until Athos yelled at him again for being too, to quote, "Un-D'Artagnan like" before ordering him to start chattering about something completely unimportant and give a cocky smile.

D'Artagnan had consulted in Aramis and Porthos about it, and they were still chuckling heartily. Marci had giggled a lot too after, what she stated as, "Uncle Athos being silly" (in which Porthos, Aramis, and D'Artagnan burst into laughter while Athos turned a wonderful shade of red).

Marci tugged on his shirt and said, "look, Tagnan! I made Buttercup!" D'Artagnan leaned down to inspect his little sister's work, and it was true; it was obviously a very well drawn horse (especially for drawn in the dirt) and it even had spots all over it, like Buttercup did.

He smiled at her. "It is a wonderful horse, Marce, great job." She absolutely glowed after the compliment.

"D'Artagnan! Marci! Lunch!" Aramis's voice called from the kitchen window. D'Artagnan shook off the sudden thought of a mother calling in her two children playing in the garden as he walked through the front door.

He sat himself and Marci down on two stools, before helping Planchet set the table. "Thank you, Monsieur!" D'Artagnan nodded his head in reply and slowly sat back down, rubbing his neck. He hadn't slept well last night, with nightmares...

The door opened and in came Athos and Porthos, fresh from patrol. "Anything eventful happen?" D'Artagnan asked, trying to sound nonchalant, but he was afraid it came out a bit too eager. He caught something like amusement twinkling in Athos's eyes, and a wry smile on Porthos's face.

"Well lad, you certainly are spry today, aren't you?" The giant man boomed, and D'Artagnan felt himself color. "Well, if you must know lad, nothing worth telling passed. Is that chicken I smell?" And with that Porthos seated himself.

Athos seated himself also, across from D'Artagnan, and immediately reached for the wine to pour himself a goblet. Having fittingly comforted himself by so, he sipped absently before locking his keen eyed gaze on D'Artagnan. "What about you, boy, what did you do today?"

D'Artagnan focused a lot of self restrained on not letting a smirk befall his lips. Athos was checking to see if he did anything strenuous, by fixing that cold, calculating glare on him that always seemed to get him to spill...

"I drew pictures in the dirt with Marci," D'Artagnan answered easily, sipping wine of his own.

Marci grinned. "Yup!" She confirmed happily. Athos settled after she said this, and D'Artagnan had his many suspicions that the older musketeer had recruited the young girl to keep an eye on him and report to Athos whenever he did something "wrong". He already had Aramis on his back twenty four seven, and when Aramis had to run somewhere his spy was Planchet. D'Artagnan couldn't lift a weight, much less go anywhere, if he wanted to keep his head.

Aramis came in holding a a chicken and laid it out in the middle of the table. Planchet fetched some fruits, the platter consisting of apples, grapes, pears, and kiwis. D'Artagnan grabbed two red apples and handed one to Marci, who munched gratefully.

He took a bite of the juicy fruit and stared across the table at Athos, sensing something the matter. "Athos." The musketeer in question looked up. "Is something troubling you?"

"Why would you say that?" Athos replied in his gruff tone, voice rising slightly at having been caught.

"Because you're not...scolding me for something."

"What, we can't eat one meal in peace without something involving you to disrupt it?"

_Ah, Athos..._

"I'm feeling the love Athos, definitely."

"I don't love you, so no you aren't."

"Definitely feeling some sort of emotion here!"

"You're hungry, it's your stomach. Now quiet and eat."

"No, its not that..."

"You're thick, now shut up."

"Gee, thanks for clearing that one up for me."

D'Artagnan heard Porthos and Aramis chuckle. Suddenly, there was a crash and a commotion outside, causing the chuckling to cease and D'Artagnan stand in alarm. Approaching the door despite Athos's angry whispers of, "Boy, get back here!" he reached for the handle cautiously, as if it might burn him. Placing his hand firmly on it and wrapping around it, he wrenched it open.

A pair of blue eyes stared back into his own before arms encased around his shoulders, and relieved laughs from the person were heard. D'Artagnan pulled away, momentarily confused, until the blonde hair and tan skin of his brother Aubin was sighted. Smiling broadly and laughing also, he hugged back while shouting, "Oh dear G-d Aubin, where have you been? Have you seen our house- where's Ceron? Mother, Father, are they alright? How'd you get here? Are you hungry? G-d, come sit down and rest." And D'Artagnan pulled his brother through the door and sat him in the stool that D'Artagnan had been previously occupying, handing him a glass of wine.

"Please tell me that he's not the only one allowed in." Another voice came from the doorway. D'Artagnan whirled around to find a boy the same age as Aubin looking back at him with the same colored eyes, and black hair.

"Ceron!" D'Artagnan exclaimed, hugging this sibling in his turn.

"D'Artagnan," the boy known as Ceron gasped, "too...tight.."

D'Artagnan instantly released him, and started up with his apologies. Ceron waved him off, but asked for a drink also. Once he was seated and comfortable, D'Artagnan inquired the retelling of their tale from the house's destruction to their escape.

"Well," Aubin started the tale as Marci sat on his lap, her arms around his neck, "He came without warning, and in broad daylight actually. I was in the barn laying new hay when I heard Mother scream something terrible, about the devil coming to reap her soul. I dropped the bail I was hauling and ran towards the house, throwing open the door to find a black rider standing over Mum and her brandishing a broom. I screamed, 'what do you want?' trying to divert its attention to me, and said with an icy cold voice, 'you!' before it launched itself at me and a paper bag was over my head. I kicked and punched as much as I could, but before I knew it I was tied up with my hands behind my back and being thrown over a horse."

"Yes, keep going!" D'Artagnan said, distressed.

"And then I ran in from where I was dueling with Father I whacked the rider over the head with my sword butt!"

D'Artagnan nodded appraisingly, and Porthos shouted, "Thatta boy, lad!" Athos sat there with his hands folded with a grim expression, and Aramis remained still and silent.

"But the rider shook it off and then, faster than I could comprehend, I was on the horse next to Aubin! I could hear mother crying in the background begging for mercy, and Father whisper something to us about saying nothing of Marci. We didn't, and I could feel us moving.

I can't tell you how long we travelled for, just that it was long and boring, and I was hungry. I slept three or four times along the way, and just when I was about to say something snarky to the rider I was hoisted down and guided down what I assume was an elegant hallway, for I could feel the coolness of marble beneath my feet." D'Artagnan only then observed that both of his brothers were barefoot.

"What happened to your boots?" D'Artagnan asked worriedly.

"He took them." Aubin replied, before continuing where Ceron left off. "And we walked a good while before a door opened and our hoods were removed, where we were strung from high cages to the ceiling, me and Aubin in one and Mother and Father in the other."

"Oh go on!" D'Artagnan pressed, in a fever.

"And then we stayed there, with no food or water, in the dark, for I don't know how long, until I suggested we at least try to break the lock which had creaked when shut, which hinted that maybe it was rusted."

"Then? Then?" D'Artagnan urged onward.

"So we managed to break the lock and fell from at least ten feet without breaking our necks!"

"And Mother and Father? What of them?" D'Artagnan inquired in a fright.

"We told them to test the lock, which wouldn't budge, then offered to break it for them, which they refused, telling us to go while we could! So we opened the door and snuck to the nearest window, jumping out of it and running for our lives!

"We knew that the only safe place to go was to you, and Father mentioned from a letter you were staying in Paris with the musketeers. So we set off and made it there on horseback we found on the road in quite a record time."

"Did you steal those horses?" D'Artagnan asked, horrified.

"There were just there!" Aubin defended. D'Artagnan pressed a hand to his brow.

"You _stole _a _horse."_

"Yes we did, and we're here, aren't we?" Ceron said.

"I-I just, you- _stole,_ a-"

"Enough with the horse, who was the man who kidnapped you?" Athos all but shouted. Ceron and Aubin flinched, but D'Artagnan looked at them with a strange expression, as if this weren't a normal reaction.

"We don't know Sir, we're sorry!" Aubin almost whimpered. Athos softened a bit at the boy's fear.

"Why doesn't Planchet take you boys upstairs so you can have a proper sleep, hm? Then we can talk about this later." Planchet did as told and the table wished them good rest. Marci went with them, holding their hands and swinging them back and forth.

* * *

Once the three young children were safely on the second flight, Athos voiced his thoughts. "I'd bet my life's savings that the man who kidnapped Aubin and Ceron was the assassin at the masquerade."

"If you bet your life's savings Athos, you will have no money for wine," Porthos joked.

A flame kindled in Athos's eyes, and he stood, slamming down his fist, exclaiming, "This is no joking matter, Porthos!"

Porthos immediately went serious, and slumped a little in defeat. Aramis remained silent, in thought, and D'Artagnan glanced worriedly in between the three Inseparables.

"It's going to receive a great amount of thought," D'Artagnan chose his words carefully.

"It better!" Athos raged, "for if you make one false move now, boy, one- it could mean sudden death!"

The door burst open a third time that day, and a messenger exclaimed breathlessly, "Monsieur's! Monsieur's!"

"What?" Aramis demanded.

"The lady Constance- she is missing!"

* * *

**AAAAAAND book Constance comes into play my friends. M. de Treville, in case anyone was wondering, is the leader of the musketeers just like the Cardinal is the leader of his guards. There's a nice feud going. Well, I won't keep you guys and I wrote this chapter in a good two hours so I hope its sufficient and the next one will be up whenever I complete the next chappie. (And I think myself fairly good with chappies) Have a nice day and watch out for centipedes! SCARY THINGS. I don't post the next chapter until you post comments, so click the button**


	14. Chapter 14

**okay, sorry for this fill in chapter, and please, oplease comment! I'm just so...nrgh...I had a bad day today, okay?**

* * *

Constance didn't know where she was, just that wherever it was it was dark, damp, and smelled terribly musty. She could hear rattling from what she assumed were chains, either around her or even on her, but she wasn't aware nor awake enough to know which. She remembered walking towards the musketeers house planning to see D'Artagnan...but then everything had gone black.

She heard whispers, and her senses a bit sharper now that she was less groggy, she grew afraid. "Hello?" She called out cautiously.

The scuffling stopped, and another feminine voice called out, "who's there?"

Constance could hardly believe she was saying this, but she answered, "I asked you first."

"My name is Annette, and I'm from a small village in Gascony. Our sons, our two sons escaped here a while ago- have you seen them?"

"I'm sorry, I haven't," Constance replied, then, trusting the woman in the dark, added, "My name is Constance."

"Constance," another masculine voice spoke up that sounded strangely familiar, "sounds...steadfast."

Constance's hope shot up- it was D'Artagnan, she wasn't all alone with a stranger! 'D'Artagnan?!" She said eagerly, gripping bars to a cage, "D'Artagnan!"

"Oh no, sweetheart, I'm sorry," Anette's voice rang out again, "that's my husband, but we have a son named D'Artagnan."

"Long brown hair, kind of short, quick, skinny, muscular, big blue eyes?" Constance described.

"Yes, that's him!" Annette called, "that's our son!"

Constance nodded in the darkness with an unbelieving smile. "Prove it!"

"We've got a daughter named Marci, and two sons named Aubin and Ceron," Annette said. Constance, at Marci's name, immediately believed them.

"Okay, okay, I got it," She replied. "By the way, your daughter and son are safe!" she could hear sighs of relief, but Constance's eyebrows scrunched together in a cute kind of way as she realized something. "Well, at least the last time I left them they were, I mean, that could've been days ago and we are talking about D'Artagnan. But D'Artagnan is just recuperating from being poisoned and-"

"Poisoned?!" Both voices shrieked.

"Ah, yeah, I walked myself into that one, huh?" Constance said. She then proceeded to tell them all that happened, softening when she had to tell them about their murdered son when sobs originated from the other side of the room, to the masquerade ball where D'Artagnan fain- collapsed valiantly and with style. (At this, both parents chuckled.)

"Well, I did tell him to get into trouble and makes mistakes, didn't I?" Bertrand said from the cage across the way.

"Does anyone know where we are?" Constance asked, rattling her cage.

"No, just we're in cages and not being fed. Water drips from the ceiling though, so we have that." Annette said optimistically.

"D'Artagnan will find us," Constance said in all confidence, "he will, I can promise it."

"We know he will, sweetheart," Annette said warmly with a tired sigh, "we know he will."

"He'll just take his time," Bertrand smiled, getting a laugh from his wife and Constance.

"I know you will find us," Constance whispered to D'Artagnan, who she was picturing in her mind, "I know you will!"

* * *

"AHHH!"

The scream was an eardrum shattering, glass cracking, head splitting kind of scream, and Athos wasted no time running up the stairs. He flung open the door to D'Artagnan's room and bursted in, to find D'Artagnan spinning in a circle wildly, Ceron and Aubin snickering evilly, and Marci watching her brother amusedly. Athos interpreted quickly that it was nothing of consequence, and breathe out the air he had been holding, sheathing his sword.

"Athos!" D'Artagnan spotted him, and looked at him desperately, "help!" He whimpered.

Athos strode forward, taking D'Artagnan's hand away from the back of his neck, to discover a leech. He wanted to laugh, but did not want to make D'Artagnan anymore embarrassed than he was; his cheeks were red as an apple.

So, he grabbed a nearby flambeau and held it close enough to the leech to make it release its hold on D'Artagnan but not close enough to burn the boy. Once it was off, he could practically hear D'Artagnan's tears of fear.

"Out of all the things he could fear," Aubin snickered again, "it's leeches!" And then he and Ceron burst into laughter. They were silenced by a glare from Athos.

"Enough!" Athos's voice rang out loud and clear, but low and gruff. D'Artagnan took a moment to compose himself again before he stuck his tongue out rather childishly at his brothers, who returned the equally ridiculous gesture. Marci watched all of this with amusement, while Athos watched it with some degree of annoyance, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Of all the stupid things to do..." He said it low enough not to be heard, but unfortunately Marcelle caught a portion of what was muttered and let loose a giggling fit. Athos smirked to her out of the corner of his mouth, making her laugh out loud.

"It's not funny!" D'Artagnan whined, but the beginnings of a smile were on his face as well. Athos knew that D'Artagnan was trying hard to stifle that.

"Why don't you all play hide and go seek?" Aramis suggested from the doorway, freeing Athos of the awkwardness, "It would certainly keep you all busy."

Marci shouted, "Yeah!" And her brothers obeyed. They didn't dare go up against her.

* * *

"Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine," D'Artagnan counted with his head in the crook of his arm, leaning up against the wall of the house, "ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen..." Reaching twenty, he stood up from his arm and glanced around the market on the still sunny day. Glancing round and finding nothing, he circled the house and checked every nook and cranny where it was possible to hide, and came up with nothing.

They had agreed just around the house, no where else; this was definitely not fair! And they couldn't have snuck past into the place. D'Artagnan huffed in annoyance, then set off around the square checking under carts and in trees, still coming up with no siblings.

Beginning to get worried, he called out apprehensively, "Aubin? Ceron? Marci?" Truly quite frightened now, and in a fever, he repeated louder, "Aubin?! Ceron?! Marci?!"

"Quiet, boy!" A vendor shouted, making our young man turn, "I saw 'em head that away!" Then he pointed in the direction of the palace.

D'Artagnan, cursing his horrid luck, nodded his thanks to the vendor and ran in the pointed place.

He reached the palace gardens which is where he found Marci. He scolded her profusely in which she shook her head and crossed her arms, and he threatened to tell Athos about this little stunt if she didn't keep right at his heel. She obeyed.

He roamed around the gardens and found nothing, and couldn't believe he was doing this, but entered the palace with Marci in tow. He searched carefully the rooms and hallways, taking care to be quiet, and instruct Marci not to touch anything. She listened to him, but D'Artagnan believed this only for the fact of the threat on telling Athos about this little escapade.

A high, girlish voice cleared her throat meaningfully, and D'Artagnan stopped in his tracks, his head stooping a bit and him hunching a bit over in knowing he was caught. Titters followed this act, and D'Artagnan did not attempt to hide his groan at knowing it was the Queen and her Ladies, undoubtedly. Titters followed this, too.

"And where are we off to, Marci?" The Queen questioned, and D'Artagnan still did not turn but knew Marci would not lie.

"To find Aubin and Ceron! We're playing hide and go seek, and we all misbehaved and went to hide around the palace anyway," Marci said this sourly, "and now he's going to _tattle _to _Athos!"_

"I am _not _going to _tattle!"_ D'Artagnan stated indignantly as he turned to glare at his sister.

"Are _to!" _Marci shot back, crossing her arms. D'Artagnan nearly replied before remembering that the Queen of France was present, and instead removed his hat and put a tired hand to his brow. Now he knew how Athos felt...

"I am not going to argue with a six year old," he muttered under his breath. The Queen watched these events unfold with some degree of amusement, and her Ladies were silent for fear of laughing and ending the entertainment for now.

"Uhm..." D'Artagnan muttered, taking one knee, "except my humblest apologies, madame, for...well, all this." When Marci did not follow his lead, he grabbed her arm- not harshly, but firmly- and pulled her down next to him. His face was to the floor.

"Who, might I inquire, are Aubin and Ceron?" Was the Queen's only question.

"My brothers," D'Artagnan answered before Marci could, making her glare at him. The Queen raised an eyebrow.

"Well, my heart is gladdened to hear you have found, at least, some of your family. And I would very much like to converse to your face, rather than the top of your head."

D'Artagnan slowly looked at her, cheeks a brilliant shade of rosy; she heard one of her Ladies whisper to another, "Look, M. D'Artagnan is _blushing, _blushing!" the other whispered back in return, "oh, oh, I wish he was mine! He's so cute!" Queen Anne smirked.

She did not think of M. D'Artagnan as one good to court, however, she did believe him full of astonishing loyalty and bravery, and quite cute also. Although boisterous and cocky on the outside, the Queen could read his soul through his expressive eyes; he was actually quite shrewd for one of his age, and unlimitedly intelligent. He was not a bad looking fellow and a skinny lad; he was lanky and strategic, and she believed her King should call upon him for tactics more often. She, however, did not voice these opinions; she thought of D'Artagnan more as a little brother, or even her son whom she had not seen for very long or had gone away for a very long period of time; but she felt affection for him, nonetheless.

"hm," The Queen said daintily, "if you two run along and find your brothers soon enough, perhaps I will let this little thing slide just this once. D'Artagnan looked up hopefully.

"Thank you, milady!"

The Queen smiled down at him, saying, "You're quite welcome, D'Artagnan. Run along, now." D'Artagnan and Marci bolted upright and practically sprinted down the hall, both with relieved looks on their faces. The Queen's Ladies tittered again.

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**told you it was a fill in chap. They find Aubin and Ceron in the most ridiculous places...but I want to thank all the people who have previously reviews and are DEFINITELY going to review this time, RIGHT? Yeah...**


	15. Chapter 15

**I know, this is so royally late, and there is no excuse except Christmas shopping. I just wrote this in like, an hour and a half. **

**Merry Christmas, viewers. :D**

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D'Artagnan was worried out of his mind for his poor Constance. She could be dead, she could be injured- who knew what was happening to her! For the third time being carried off, D'Artagnan knew he would never ever get used to the vice like grip of stone cold fear that chained his heart and barred his soul. His parents momentarily took a backseat for his first real true love- his parents could cope, certainly, but Constance was dainty and, although strong willed, she could not withstand much in the hands of enemies. Furthermore, D'Artagnan was unwilling to think of the alternative to the fact that, perhaps, he would not find her well, nor alive...

Shaking his head once again to rid these vile thoughts that poisoned his mind, he glanced around the hallway again before sighing, frustrated. Aside from the jumbled emotions of Constance, Aramis had suggested hide and seek for a distraction and entertainment, and now he somehow ended up sneaking- _sneaking! _around the King's grounds. Not only that, but he regained two members of importance- then lost them again. He would be grey by the time he found them, no doubt.

D'Artagnan stopped a minute, lost in an idea of discovery, causing Marci to bump into him. D'Artagnan paid no heed to her apology and asked for silence, while listening closely for any sounds that might reveal any sort of clue. And then, almost imperceptibly, there was a light scratching noise as if someone had shifted- and it had come directly from D'Artagnan's left. He spun towards the sound to find a rather tall, ornamental vase standing there, still, and he peered into it. He found, to his much astonishment, the smiling face of Aubin looking back up at him.

D'Artagnan growled, grabbing his brother by the scruff of his shirt found usually at the back of the neck, and carefully hoisted him out of the hiding spot. "_What are you thinking this is the King's palace! what did you do, break in?" _D'Artagnan hissed. Marci glared pointedly at her brother and Aubin cowered a bit at both. "Where is Ceron?"

Aubin shrugged, not knowing where his twin was at. D'Artagnan ran his hands through his hair tiredly. "Damn," he growled softly, earning a slap. "Ow!" He cried out, rubbing his sore arm and turning to Marci, who had her arms crossed and a reprimanding look on her face. _Dear G-d, she looks just like Mother, _D'Artagnan thought, slightly intimidated, but he knew not why, for he was facing his six year old little sister. Who could pack a punch with those skinny arms. "What was that for?"

"No cursing, Tagnan!" Marci muttered angrily.

"Fine!" D'Artagnan murmured back, still annoyed. It was like being scolded by his companions all over again! He turned back to Aubin and his present problem at hand. "Aubin, do you have _any _idea where Ceron might be?"

"No," Aubin said truthfully, now understanding the direness of his mistake, "but I think he might have hidden somewhere near the main hall-"

"Come on then!" D'Artagnan shouted, pulling the both of them down the hall. "Why didn't you mention it before?!"

* * *

D'Artagnan wandered around the palace, completely lost, cursing his terrible luck, worried out of his mind for Constance and his parents, a flame of rage lighting in his soul, and no where to take this all out on. He did count himself lucky in the fact that he had his sister and his brothers- well, one brother, he corrected himself; the other was still very much M.I.P Missing In Play.

"Anyone see anything?" D'Artagnan whispered back to his siblings, who shook their heads. "Dam-darn," he replaced the curse last minute just as Marci was preparing to strike him again. "Ha," he called back softly in his victory of not getting hit.

"D'Artagnan?"

He stopped in his tracks. _Oh crap, _he thought, _oh please, no!_

"What are you doing in here?" Louis seemed pleasantly surprised to see him. Aubin chuckled nervously from behind his older brother.

D'Artagnan planted a smile on his face, and let out a breathy laugh. "You're Majesty," he said, taking a knee and both his brother and sister following his example, "We- I mean, I just..." Then he decided that he couldn't make up a suitable lie, and just voiced the truth. "We- as in, my brothers and sister- were playing hide and seek to pass the time and even though I told them the palace was off limits," he began to sound extremely exasperated and weary, "they didn't listen and hid here anyway. I'm sorry I snuck in, Your Grace, but I'm still one brother down for the count and I can't stop looking- I just got him back, please understand Your Highness-"

But Louis silenced him with a gesture of hand, and tsked. "well," he said, placing both hands on his hips in thought. He was clad in red, today, with golden stripes. "Well," he said again, finally, over the course of many silent and nerve racking minutes, "we must find that one brother down, eh? Continue your search, D'Artagnan, and I will have my people keep an eye out for him. Oh, and D'Artagnan," Louis added just as he was walking away, "children loose in my palace does not look good. Please, not again."

"Of course not Your Majesty, I swear it on my word as a nobleman," D'Artagnan promised, bowing.

"Ta ta for now, then," Louis said with a wave, and turned back in the direction he came. D'Artagnan slowly relaxed, and it took several minutes to get him to stop hyperventilating.

"Come on," D'Artagnan ground out, grinding his teeth, "lets find Ceron."

* * *

They crept through the halls, quiet as mice, occasionally knocking things of, thank goodness, little value over. they seemed to explore everywhere in search of Ceron, with little luck in clues or tracks. D'Artagnan huffed yet again, stopping and stomping his foot annoyed. This was all his fault, he thought sourly to himself; he should've made the importance of not getting lost clear. Staying close now was key; D'Artagnan knew not where this assassin could be lurking, and admittedly without his three older companions standing at his sides he felt vulnerable and exposed. He just gained back his siblings; he wished not to lose them again. He felt like there was an endless cycle of things that he screwed up or things that went wrong for him. (it wasn't self pity, it was self-belatence of impatience and annoyance at cockiness.) Most of his problems were caused by him, and if he could kick someone in the pants responsible for all his blunders he wouldn't sit for a week.

"There he is!" Aubin suddenly hollered which successfully startled D'Artagnan who unsheathed his sword and glanced around warily for an intruder before realizing that Aubin spoke about Ceron, not the assassin. Putting his rapier back into his scabbard he settled, but not so much as Aubin dragged Ceron out of a nearly invisible crevice.

"Aubin," D'Artagnan growled menacingly, "you're so dead."

Ceron gulped, and asked tentatively, "what are you going to do?"

"I'm," D'Artagnan declared triumphantly, "Going to tell Athos."

"Ha! So you _are _tattling!" Marci accused. D'Artagnan only cursed and rubbed his forehead, exasperated.

* * *

They got home when it was nearing dusk. Once all family members were safely through the doorway and into the cozy house, D'Artagnan removed his hat and cloak, shutting the door from the chilling winter air that went straight down to the marrow.

D'Artagnan's cheeks were rosy with cold, the rest of his face pale; his hair was windblown and his eyelashes had little traces of frost on them that made his blue eyes look like they were glistening.

Aramis was about to speak when Athos interrupted him. "YOU HAVE BEEN GONE ALL DAY!" He ranted at the top of his voice, addressing all the children but looking directly at D'Artagnan, "WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? I'VE- WE'VE BEEN CONCERNED ABOUT YOU LOT ALL DAY AFRAID YOU'D BEEN CARRIED OFF LIKE MADAME BONACIEUX!"

He took seven strides forward and was now not a foot from D'Artagnan, arms flailing wildly in his anger and heat of annoyance. "I thought- you could've been- I was just- I thought you'd been kidnapped!" He'd finished this lecture quiet wearily and weakly, falling into a vacant chair and head landing in his palm, elbow propped on the table. D'Artagnan was extremely alarmed; he had never, in all his days of knowing the musketeer, hear him use that tone before. He sounded...worried, almost. Parently. "I was worried. Don't do it again."

Athos spoke so softly and imperceptibly that D'Artagnan almost missed the words; but once he made them out, he sighed outwardly. He felt awful, there was nothing else for it. He had made Athos, above anyone else, worry, and worry terribly about him. Even though his heart held a sick feeling towards himself (and a bout of pain at the mention of Constance who he had managed to push from his mind) but he also felt a warm balloon blossom from within his chest. Athos was _worried _about him. He was concerned for D'Artagnan's wellbeing. It made D'Artagnan feel, well...it made him feel _loved_.

Athos tried to stay angry, oh, he did. But looking at D'Artagnan now, his cheeks so rosy and hair windblown in such a way that made him look oh so much younger than he was, he found he couldn't. He wanted to, so badly, and he attempted it; but why did that face have to be so innocent looking and those eyes so _infuriatingly glittery?_

So Athos's anger dissipated and he sank into a chair, dissolving into stillness.

* * *

They ate dinner in a pressed silence, each left to ponder those swirling thoughts of his own; then without dialogue they retired to rooms and the house was once again silent once the doors were done creaking and floorboards stopped squeaking from pressure. Soon, Porthos's loud snores could be distinguished, and if you listened quite carefully you could make out prayers from Aramis. Aubin and Ceron muttered a little in sleep and Marci giggled; these soothing night sounds, along with the gentle noise of the winter breeze against the shutters, lulled D'Artagnan into a sound slumber.

But it was then his nightmares began.

_People called for him, the voices echoing from all around him, surrounding him on all sides. "D'Artagnan, help me!" "No, help me!" "Please, I need you!" D'Artagnan spun round in circles, trying to determine which person was the closest so he could easily and quickly go help the others; yet nothing but darkness enclosed around him, strangling the air from his lungs and the strength of his voice. _

"_Hello?" he called out, hesitant. "Who's there?"_

"_Hellllllp!" The voices moaned pitifully. "Hellllllp us..." There was a rapping sound, like wood against marble; a figure appeared slowly from out of the hellish shadows, face hideous with loathing and an ugly scar stretching across it. The demon like creature groped for him, eyes cut and merely dead skin; gnarled hands reached eagerly towards him, D'Artagnan knowing their intention. He tried to back away, but something fought him; he looked down and found himself caught in a marsh. he tugged as hard as he could to free himself to retreat, but no matter how much strength he put forth it would not budge; then the hands wrapped around his throat, getting excited, and squeezed off the air from his windpipe._

_His eyes widened as he was paralyzed with fear; he tried to squirm, no luck; he wanted to scream, there was no sound; he wanted to run, but an invisible, intangible force held him back. _

He woke startled and very much frightened, tears on his cheeks and gathering in his eyes quickly; he whimpered as he discovered himself bound by his blanket, and remembering the hands, struggled to free himself yet again. This task accomplished, he glanced around, the shadows shifting on the walls into terrible creatures that those wish only to be in myth and fairytale and children ask their parents to search for in rooms before the light is gone and there is nothing but that knowledge that something is stalking you.

D'Artagnan, now completely horrified into shock, listened: the wind howled, and the shutters banged against the house, yet Marci's giggles were then heard, as well as the twin's muttering; there was snoring that could shake a town in the next room, yet there was silence in exception to prayers which suggested it was very late.

D'Artagnan, now fully awake and feeling very claustrophobic, quietly and with much agility stepped over his siblings to the door which he opened and then shut, only a faint click heard. Making not a sound he crept down the stairs where the silhouette of Athos was spotted; he stealthily made his way over to the couch and sat down next to Athos, close enough to receive comfort if required but far enough so as to not crowd.

"Shouldn't you be in bed?" Athos said without tearing his gaze to the crackling fire which cast a warm glow over the entire room as well as upstairs staircase.

"Had a nightmare, couldn't sleep," D'Artagnan answered in what he hoped was a nonchalant tone and a shrug. He knew he would meet Athos down here, and even though he possessed that information, it still reassured him a great deal to actually sit with him.

"Wanna talk?"

Athos's question surprised D'Artagnan, and he was shocked for a moment. Pausing before opening his mouth and thinking what to say, D'Artagnan started, "it was dark. People were calling for my help, and I couldn't see them. Then the imposter from that one night at the palace appeared and strangled me."

It was all put extremely blunt, D'Artagnan knew; but this was the only way he could put it, and it still sent shivers dancing along his spine and chill bumps to arise from his skin. Athos merely nodded, still not looking at him. "That all?"

D'Artagnan paused, trying to remember; but the dream was one of those that you remember only for a moment, then they slide away to the recesses of your mind to fester as a forever unknown thought but always considered scary. "I think," he concluded.

Athos took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm sorry to hear that." he finally said after many minutes of silence; "were you frightened?"

D'Artagnan considered not answering for a moment, embarrassed; but he trusted Athos not to poke fun, and simply replied, "yes."

Athos scooted a little closer and put his arm around D'Artagnan's shoulders surprisingly. "You know you're safe, here, right?"

This question also caught D'Artagnan off guard, but he realized he was nodding. "Yes but, but...It's just, it always seemed like I'm the one always getting into some sort of trouble even though I don't mean to, and everything just blows up into my face!" Athos got the impression they were no longer talking about the night in the palace. "I mean, I try to do things right and set good examples and do what's expected of me, to watch out for them and care for them even when I'm annoyed." Athos knew they definitely weren't just talking dreams anymore, and listened intently. "Yet I always seem to get scolded even when it's not me who's done wrong and it just- I just-"

Then it all clicked for the elder musketeer. When he had been addressing everyone, not just D'Artagnan, because he was looking right at the boy he thought...dammit.

This seemed to happen to him way too much.

And apparently, that's what happened with D'Artagnan's parents also; one of the musketeer's siblings would do wrong, then D'Artagnan forever blamed for it because he was the oldest and expected to be the most responsible. But D'Artagnan was scarcely nineteen yet, borderline or in the middle eighteen; to have that resting on his shoulders along with everything else lately...

"D'Artagnan," Athos said gently, and D'Artagnan looked up into his suntanned face, "you know I was addressing everyone earlier when I shouted?" By the way the boy's eyebrows scrunched, he didn't know he was addressing everyone.

"But you were looking right at me!" D'Artagnan said indignantly, looking a bit peeved but relieved at the same time.

"I'm sorry I sent you mixed messages," Athos resumed again, in the same gentle, fatherly voice he could hardly believe was his own, "but you are not in trouble. I was angry, and now I am I over it. I have turned a corner."

"I like this turn," D'Artagnan commented with a small smile which made Athos chuckle.

"Don't get too used to it."

Athos watched D'Artagnan's valiant attempts to stay awake, which were all in vain. Athos even ended up coaxing him to rest by laying him back a bit more so he was more slumped. The wind howled and shutters shook, but D'Artagnan's eyes dragged themselves closed until his head fell onto Athos's shoulder and his breathing was even.

As Athos looked down in the young face, picturing it earlier in all it's worry, he realized that D'Artagnan had been looking at him with the same admiration as a son would a father. It made him all the more glad that he had talked to the child, and that it hadn't escalated but he had given comfort in all ways he could.

Laying D'Artagnan down horizontal on the couch and covering him with a blanket just as the candlemark burned three o'clock A.M, Athos continued to stare into the fire, though his thoughts lay not tonight with Milady; they lay with D'Artagnan and that look he had cast Athos's way, and those glittery innocent eyes from earlier that wanted acceptance.

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**How about you mozy on down and hit that comment button? MERRY CHRISTMAS! :D**


	16. Chapter 16

**My apologies viewers for the absurd lateness of this chapter. I know, and there is no excuse. Please leave a comment and I hope you enjoy this chapter!**

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D'Artagnan felt warm. He was lying on something soft, and someone was patting his knee ever so often as if to reassure themself that he was still there. He drifted through that space in between the realm of dreams and reality, a blissful feeling never leaving him.

Something gold crossed his line of vision, and cracking his eyes open he saw a blinding white light. Allowing his eyes to adjust to this change, he saw Constance emerge and leaned down, her golden locks tickling his face as her pale lips whispered his name in his ear. She was wearing blue ribbons in her hair as well as a baby blue dress, her complexion clear and untroubled. She was unhurt and actually quite happy, which quelled D'Artagnan's distress. "Constance," he said with a relieved sigh, but before he could continue she shook her head as she lifted it to look into his own eyes, her blue/green ones meeting his. "What?"

A small smile graced her face, showing white teeth, before it faded but the sparkle of love was still within her eyes. Her hand reached down, offering him a way up from where he was lying, and he stared at it, confused. "What? I don't understand." But she still maintained her silence, opening and closing her palm again, before he hesitantly grasped it. She smiled broadly, her eyes crinkling at the corners, before she yanked him up. He felt himself flying forwards, before-

"D'Artagnan!" He leaned against Athos's shoulder as he regained his senses.

"Constance?" he exclaimed eagerly, looking about him. When he noticed her absence, his eager face fell to a far too long one. He looked up at Athos, confused and upset.

"I am sorry, D'Artagnan," Athos said kindly, slowly leading his still very groggy friend to the breakfast table. "She's gone." He hadn't the need to add, "she was never here." D'Artagnan sat with a plop and began to munch thoughtfully on an apple. His brothers walked in a few moments later, hair sticking up in all places and looking on very sleepily, knuckling their eyes. D'Artagnan would've laughed, had it not been for the ache in his heart where he thought Constance resided.

Athos stared at him, unhappy that D'Artagnan was once again in his sulky mood; but, brightening, Athos commanded, "eat up; we have practice today." D'Artagnan instantly perked at this, and the twins cheered, all sleepiness gone.

D'Artagnan scarfed down his breakfast like it was his last full meal, then jumped to attention in front of Athos. Athos had no idea he had been so eager to pick up the work again, but reflecting on the recent events- going to Gascony, emotional trauma, poisoning, Constance's disappearance- he had hardly practiced at all.

They walked out into the yard, swords at the ready, Aubin, Ceron, and Marci had taken a seat on the grass to watch the show; D'Artagnan scowled at them as they seemed eager to watch him get his butt whooped.

"Ready?" Athos asked, deciding to go easy on the boy today.

D'Artagnan grinned wickedly. "I should be asking you that, old man," he teased, and all ideas that the elder warrior had of going easy were suddenly gone.

Athos and D'Artagnan crossed swords, both putting their spare hand upon their hip, and spreading their feet to the proper length. They bowed heads towards each other, staring at the other in feigned maliciousness and some fright, eager for the challenge they each presented to each other. Athos stabbed, yet D'Artagnan parried easily; Athos lunged then swung his sword around and over D'Artagnan, coming down to slice his head. D'Artagnan's sword was up in a flash and the metal collided, making a _Shing! _sound when they were rubbed against each other in the act of freeing it from the other.

"Move your feet!" Athos commanded, and D'Artagnan shuffled in rhythm to him. "Keep your guard up- what are you doing? Don't lower your defences boy- what are you looking at?" For Athos had caught the blue eyes that were locked upon something behind him and turned.

A horse carrying a dead rider trotted up to them as if it knew where it was going, neighed and stomped its foot.

D'Artagnan slowly approached the animal to pat its dark mane and then stroke the brown muzzle before noticing a note pinned to the corpse with a dagger. Exchanging a look with Athos, he carefully extracted the dagger and threw it aside; Athos warned the children with his eyes not to touch it as D'Artagnan slowly read the note.

The boy paled, and handed it to Athos so he could read it. "I wanna read it, I wanna read it!" Marci chanted, springing up and attempting to grab it from Athos's hand, who merely swatted her arm away and glared at her. She stopped immediately, and Athos turned his attention back to the letter.

_My dear D'Artagnan,_

_Why play in the sun all day_

_Drawing pictures, dueling in vein_

_When all will be for naught_

_For destiny is forever wrought_

_With your demise and doom forever bound_

_Around your soul, now don't lose ground_

_For I am giving you a chance_

_To claim what's yours, now take your stance_

_You have but so little time_

_D'Artagnan now if I were you,_

_I would heed this advice for sure_

_Come to the Le Manoir de Peste Noire at noon, _

_To save your friends yet meet your doom._

Athos, after reading the ridiculous rhyming message, glanced at D'Artagnan who appeared to seriously be considering going. "No!" Athos said sternly, making the blue eyes look at him, "you are not going."

"But Constance, my parents, and other innocent people I know could be there!" He argued, "and if its me he wants, then who am I to not save all those people? Huh?"

Athos sighed and sheathed his sword, their duel forgotten. "D'Artagnan, are you mad? He's the assassin! He's probably baiting you to capture you and kill-" but he cut off the sentence as D'Artagnan once again reached towards the horse, and came back with a huge bunch of long, golden locks. They were in tact and looked surprising healthy, and D'Artagnan pulled another large note from the middle of them and read it aloud.

"_Well she's a pretty one, isn't she? I hope you can lose her, because she's nearly gone. By the way, she sends her love." _

The young man turned to Athos, eyes shining in pure fear. "Athos..." he moaned, in absolute terror and nothing else. "Athos..."

Athos longed to hug him and comfort him, but he knew not how. D'Artagnan was going to risk his life, one that had made it through so much, to save what could possibly be already deceased, and even yet, not even there and set up as a trap? He could have gotten that hair from anywhere. But staring at his charge, lips quivering and face pale, he knew he could not just stand around. They needed to go after the culprit to save D'Artagnan's life and put this worry and business to rest once and for all, and this was the only way to do that. They just needed a plan, a damn good one, foolproof and absolutely no flaws, to make it through this.

They had an hour and a half.

Athos did not put much confidence into this plan of action, or even going; but he knew that D'Artagnan would be going with or without their help, and he had much better chances with the former. Thus was settled. Though they would all probably die.

"Come, D'Artagnan, children," he addressed all of them, nodding his head towards the house, "lets go inside. Quickly now, step lively!" Once they all had gone through the door in front of him, Athos stopped, sweeping his gaze across the street and houses just in case he spotted anything suspicious before closing it and bolting it tightly. "Planchet!" He ordered loudly and harshly, "seal all the windows and doors, even those on a second story." When Planchet opened his mouth, Athos cut in, "don't question it, just go!"

"Now what's all this about, Athos, really," Porthos boomed, but before he could continue Athos interrupted.

"Sit down and don't speak for a moment," he said, "I'm trying to think. Children, draw the blinds." They did so, questioning, "What's going on?" Athos didn't answer, but instead sat Aramis down beside Porthos and, checking out the window one last time, sighed and slumped into a chair. He was only still for a moment though, before gathering a piece of paper and quill, thrusting them down on the table and explaining what was going on to the extremely startled and confused company before him.

"Alright," he started, a firm seriousness of military tactic in his tone, "we- as in, Porthos, Aramis, D'Artagnan and myself- and going to Le Manoir de Peste Noire at noon today to rescue Constance and, hopefully, your parents."

D'Artagnan's face broke out into a huge, beaming smile and Marci, Aubin and Ceron stared at him in open mouthed shock. "You're WHAT?" All siblings but D'Artagnan screamed. "Our parents are there? Constance? Who's she? D'Artagnan hasn't said anything about her- is she a captive? Is this a mission?"

"SILENCE!" Athos shouted, slamming a palm down upon the wood, making everyone jump and go quiet. "Now. There is a good chance that your parents will not be there, but Constance is an important lady of the Ladies In Waiting to the queen. I suppose you could call it a mission, of sorts."

"And she's 'Tagnan's girlfriend," Marci snickered, earning laughs from the twins and a glare from D'Artagnan. Athos sighed. If he thought D'Artagnan was hard to make focus, triple him was triple as impossible.

"Back on track," Athos ordered. "Now, seeing as we are to be walking into an obvious trap, we need a back up. I have a plan, but it could very well kill us all."

There was silence around the table, until Porthos broke it. "Certainty of death," he exclaimed with a happy smile, "small chance of success...I'm in!" The children began to laugh, and even D'Artagnan chuckled slightly.

"Okay, so here's what we do: Aramis and D'Artagnan will walk through the door, whereas Porthos and I approach from the sides. Its so simple a plan, the assassin won't expect it. He knows our strong points; Agility, strength, stealth, and cunning." D'Artagnan blushed, knowing he was cunning and extremely pleased all the same. "That is why," Athos continuing, "we are going to switch it up a bit." He paused, studying each face, before starting up again. "Aramis, you are going to be strength."

Aramis looked surprised, but not unbelieving. Each of them was strong in their own right, it was no lie; Porthos was just so incredible in size that he was the most practical by use of force. "D'Artagnan," Athos said, "you are stealth." D'Artagnan stared at Athos as if he had three heads. "Porthos," the giant man perked up, "you are agile." His brow furrowed. "And I, am cunning.

We will each have different roles; I, for one, and going to create a ruckus, a distraction. Aramis is going to do the same. He will deploy all of his forces against us, in which believing that we were attacking from the sides. This is where D'Artagnan and Porthos come into the picture. They will sneak past the guards into the antechamber, first door to the left; from there you will proceed down the hall then make another left, where you will find the courtroom. There I am sure is where they hold prisoners."

"You speak as though you've been there before," Aramis said carefully.

Athos nodded grimly, as though recalling a terrible memory. "It was a bad mission, and I had the misfortune to be captured. I escaped. It was not a pleasant experience and not one I am willing to share." He warned quietly yet threateningly.

"Okay, but there's just one problem," Aubin said impatiently. "Me, Ceron and Marci don't fit into your neat, nice little plan."

"That's because_ you're_ not coming," D'Artagnan answered before Athos could.

"And why not?" Ceron demanded; "They're_ our_ parents too, you know, and we have just as much right to be there as you do!"

"Its too dangerous, no. That is my final answer." D'Artagnan replied flatly.

Marci's eyes filled with tears and she stood up and screamed, "you always tell us what to do and I'm sick of it!" Before clomping up the stairs. Aubin and Ceron cast dirty glares their brother's way before following her.

Guilt was written all over D'Artagnan's features as he made to go after them, but was stopped by Aramis. "I'd let them cool down," he soothed, "and then you can talk later." D'Artagnan looked at him dubiously a moment, though why, Aramis was unsure; though the young man glanced towards the stairs, he did not follow.

"Right then. Well, we all know the plan. We all know what we need to do yes?" Athos asked, and everyone nodded. "Good. With luck, we'll come back unscathed. Come, we need to be heading out anyway; it is nearly eleven, and noon approaches fast."

* * *

**I apologize for this long overdue chapter. It is nothing but laziness, and I apologize again. I hope this chapter was satisfactory and leave a comment!**


	17. Chapter 17

**Here it is, viewers! One of the last chapters of Revenge Is Cruel. Please enjoy!**

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"So where exactly _is _this Le Manoir de Peste Noire?" D'Artagnan asked, pulling his horse from its trot and falling in step with Athos's horse, who was walking.

"Well," Athos said sternly, his eyes stony and staring ahead at the road rather than D'Artagnan, "I'm not exactly sure of the names of the roads, though I do know the way. If you ever get kidnapped, it is good to memorize the road to such places should you, by chance, ever have to go there again; as the need has arisen now."

"But-"

"Silence, boy, this is not up for discussion!" Athos roared. D'Artagnan flinched, and the horse had stopped at Athos's shout, startled. D'Artagnan gently kicked it to a walk and it obeyed, but a walk was how it stayed, not pulling up towards Athos again. D'Artagnan did not blame him.

"Ah, boy, he's just stressed," Porthos said, pulling up from behind D'Artagnan to ride parallel to him. "He doesn't mean it."

"Yeah, well he sure does _seem _to mean it, and the anger certainly _seems _genuine." D'Artagnan said a bit bitterly.

Porthos was taken a little aback with the use of present tense; but, understanding his young companion all too well, he said, his answer halting, "you know...he only does that because he loves you."

"Yeah well," D'Artagnan said, releasing a breathy laugh and a small, annoyed smile, "it doesn't seem like that's the case sometimes."

"Well, it isn't all the time," Porthos said, and D'Artagnan looked at him with brows furrowed in confusion.

"But you just said-"

"D'Artagnan," Porthos interrupted him, "I said that he loves you, and I know deep down that that's true, and that Athos recognizes love when he experiences it. He is merely surprised- as are we all, in fact- that in so little time such a small Gascon boy could wiggle his way into our hearts so easily as you have." D'Artagnan stared at the large man, for the words were so un-Porthos like that he felt the bigger person was pulling his leg.

"You're joking, right?" He asked warily, hoping that he wasn't but he could not disguise nor ignore the feeling of dubiousness that had entered his heart. It was a strange feeling that dominated most of his torso; warm and swirling, but cold and chilling. It was hard to describe, so D'Artagnan gave up on his inner attempts.

"No, little shit, I'm not joking!" Porthos boomed loudly, but not loud enough for even the keen eared Athos could hear. Then, at a normal volume once again, "I'm trying to teach you a lesson."

Aramis suddenly cut Porthos's next line off by adding, "We do not expect you to be perfect, but you are far too ignorant for your own good, D'Artagnan. You need to lead with your head, not your heart." At D'Artagnan's confused look, Aramis explained. "You plunge head first into battle because someone you know asked you. You'd do it without question, battle tactic, or even a plan, and you'd be merciful within that battle. Though mercy is a valued and admired trait, it could get you killed someday."

D'Artagnan began to understand. "But what does this have to do with Athos being angry?" He questioned, and Porthos and Aramis shared a look that said, _really? _

"The point is," Porthos said, a little impatiently this time, "Is that you do some pretty dumb stuff D'Artagnan, because you didn't use your head. Whatever you said to him was not a smart thing."

D'Artagnan's voice was small when he answered. "Oh."

"We're not telling you off, nor punishing you in any way," Aramis said, "we are just trying to help."

"I understand," D'Artagnan said with a smile, which reassured both musketeers that he was alright. "...should I...should I apologize to him?"

Aramis shrugged. "I dunno, _should _you?"

"...yes."

"Then go ahead and do so." D'Artagnan cast them one more small smile before he pulled along side of Athos once again. The man did not speak, nor even acknowledge his presence.

"Erm, Athos," D'Artagnan said, clearing his throat; but still Athos did not look at him. "I'm sorry. I should not have pressed the subject."

"No," Athos growled, "no you shouldn't have." D'Artagnan waited, but no forgiveness was stated. D'Artagnan hung his head in shame.

Athos, out of the corner of his eye, saw D'Artagnan hang his head in...shame, maybe? Immediately the older man felt bad. There had been true sincerity and sorrow in his voice; the boy was genuinely sorry. "You are forgiven, D'Artagnan," Athos said, not growling but firmly, "yet leave me to peace for awhile; I have much to think about."

D'Artagnan's face brightened a little and he lifted his head, nodding. "Thank you, Athos."

Athos nodded curtly, and D'Artagnan vanished from sight behind him. He wished not to think of the time he was held captive; but this manor, and this man, held many armed forces who were trained almost as well as the Inseparables, so this presented quite a challenge indeed.

If you were not careful, the walls would open up and swallow you whole, the staircases vanish and reappear other places until you were completely and utterly lost. It was frightening and easy to be killed, for the suits of armor had crossbow like mechanisms that shot out whenever you walked by. What might seem like a harmless hallway could have dangerous, deadly lasers concealed. All in all, the whole darn building and mission was a death trap.

The sun was high in the sky and it was nearing noon; possibly eleven thirty, and they still had a little ways to go. Athos didn't want to think about what could happen should they be late; they should've left earlier, they should've gone over the plan more. But Athos, being a musketeer, knew not to dwell on what ifs; so he focused on the battle tactic instead. It seemed simple enough so that D'Artagnan, nor anyone, could screw it up, and it seemed unexpected considering this man was a great battle warrior and would expect the whole damn platoon of M. Treville's forces to show up. Four men were much, much simpler indeed. Athos only hoped that this plan was complexly simple enough (if that made any sense at all) to fool the assassin.

They rode in silence the rest of the way, hot and panting even though they were on horses, and D'Artagnan pondering the words of his role models: "You fight with your heart, instead of your head."

* * *

They quite sooner than Athos had hoped stumbled upon the Le Manoir de Peste Noire, with not ten minutes to spare. Immediately all of them assumed their positions, and throwing a rock over the roof to Aramis did he signal him that Athos was entering the building. He went in through the second story window using a rope and the horse, and once inside, deliberately and loudly smashed an expensive looking vase, then pretending to be angry at D'Artagnan, shouted as loudly as he could, "BOY! WHAT ARE YOU, AN IMBECILE? YOU'VE ALERTED THE ENEMY OF OUR PRESENCE!"

Then he broke out into a sprint down the hallway, knocking over tables and tipping goblets and a a few flambeaux. Even though Athos was a distinguished gentlemen, he had to admit, it was fun. He made as much of a ruckus as he could with his footfalls and was careful to leave footprints from mud.

He heard a shout of, "You! Stop!" but ignored it as he rounded the bend- and came face to face with two score of men armed with pistols and pointed directly at him. He turned around as if to return the way he came, but found another two score blocking him. He sighed, and raised his hands in a sign of surrender. He was yanked by the arms down the hall, caught, and he hoped Aramis had had better luck than he.

* * *

Meanwhile, Aramis, after receiving the signal, counted to fifty before entering the first floor through a window. Grinning evilly, he tiptoed down the hall only to come face to face with a pair of guards- these of which he knew would be guarding the entrance door. He smiled again, in such a way that the church would expel the pious man for wickedness, and quickly lumbered up to them, making himself look as big as possible. Then, with a quick "Amen" he snapped both their necks, and was a bit sorry he had killed them. However, he knew this was for a good cause.

This accomplished, he knocked three times upon the door- "the signal" Athos had insisted- and heard three returning knocks, making him aware that D'Artagnan and Porthos had received the message. Smiling to himself, he screamed as loud as he could, "Come and get me!" Before sprinting down the hall.

Soon, he found himself very much cornered with a score of men in front of him. Praying to God for this plan not to fail, he allowed himself to be arrested as he was led down the hall, towards the place Athos had stated they held prisoners.

* * *

It was not as though D'Artagnan had never been to battle; however, he could not stop the shaking of his knees or the shift of his shoulders. He felt Porthos's large hand on his shoulder, but that did nothing to quell his unease. When the three knocks sounded, he returned them, and then heard Aramis sprint down the hall screaming, "COME AND GET ME!"

Looking at Porthos and nodding, he slowly eased the large wooden door open and squeeze through. Glancing around and waiting for Porthos to join him, he started his walk down the hall as he and Porthos separated. A nervous quiver had begun to weave its course through his body and the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, alerting him to the fact he was being watched. Stopping a moment and listening closely, he heard nothing, sensed nothing more, and so therefore continued upon his way.

Coming across the first door on the left just like Athos had described, he slowly eased it open and found himself in a poorly-lit room. Marble covered the floors, and D'Artagnan marveled at how Aubin and Ceron had not broken anything as they had dropped from their cage. Speaking of cage...he glanced upwards, and indeed there were huge cages hanging from the ceiling by huge chains.

"Hello?" he called, and suddenly a large ruckus consisting of banging and rustling around occurred, then silence. "Ummm...Constance?"

"D'Artagnan?" Came the shrill answer, and a massive grin appeared on D'Artagnan's face.

"Constance, thank God you're-"

"D'Artagnan?" Another voice entered the conversation.

D'Artagnan halted in his tracks, hardly daring to believe it. "M-M-Mother?"

"Oh, my dear sweet boy," she cried, and he wished badly he could see the state they were both in.

"Thank God you're both alright- is Fa-"

"D'Artagnan son?"

"Father?!"

"Yes Sir." Came the answer from Bertrand.

"You're all okay!" D'Artagnan exclaimed, relieved and overjoyed. He was aware he was crying, but did not care; he was with people he loved, and they were all safe. His family, his love, were safe; this evil being had not harmed them. The adrenaline drained from him as he collapsed to the ground, whispering to himself yet his voice echoing, "thank God, almighty father!"

"D'Artagnan!" Constance said urgently, her voice distressed and pressing; D'Artagnan righted and composed himself immediately. "The assassin, he's still out there, he owns this manor!"

D'Artagnan was now confused, and said, "I know..." But before he could continue, the door opened and Athos was shoved roughly through. He twisted in the men's grasp, though this was in vain; D'Artagnan angrily cried out as a sword butt was smashed against his mentor's head, who went limp. Almost immediately after Aramis was guided in, the pious man silent and glaring; and then Porthos followed, bleeding from his head with his arm twisted at a strange angle. D'Artagnan, who was now seeing red, unsheathed his sword and stood at the ready, about to attack when a voice rang out, "Stop!"

D'Artagnan dropped his arms, startled, and jumped. A figure emerged from the shadows, and D'Artagnan inadvertently shivered; it was the man from the courtroom, the man from the masquerade...Cornelius Marmanium. The name rocketed through D'Artagnan's head, and he gasped at the revelation. A dark chuckle brought him from his stupor.

"You stupid boy." Cornelius growled in a threatening tone which made chills dance up and down D'Artagnan's spine. "You didn't actually believe that I wouldn't expect you to call? To rescue your dear family?" It was said in a way that was almost meant to be a jeer, the assassin leering at him and D'Artagnan standing straight, tall, chin held high and showing absolutely no terror.

"I would like to play a game." The man said after D'Artagnan's many minutes of silence in which Cornelius expected a response.

"I'm amazing at hide and seek." D'Artagnan said cockily, trying to cover the shaking of his voice. When the man sneered at him, D'Artagnan realized he did so unsuccessfully.

"Not that kind." Light suddenly flooded the chamber, exposing different ornaments of torture items around the room. Swords lay amok scattered around the ground, and a thin line appeared in the shape of a circle nearly as big as the entire room. Suddenly Constance, his parents, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis were bound inside the circle; as well as Marci, Aubin and Ceron. All of them were gagged.

D'Artagnan felt his blood boil at the sight of his siblings, and he demanded harshly, "What the bloody hell are you _doing_ here? I told you to _stay home!" _He said this angrily and cruelly, but Aubin merely shrugged and gave D'Artagnan a, _"did you seriously think we wouldn't follow you?"_ look.

"Choose one to die." Came the sudden order, and D'Artagnan's head snapped to Cornelius so abruptly and hard that it could've snapped his neck like a twig.

_"What?"_

"Choose one to die, in this circle." Cornelius repeated calmly, and D'Artagnan cursed. He was about to choose on of the assassin's warriors. D'Artagnan glanced at each and everyone of them, realizing he could not; he loved them all equally, and life without them would not be life at all, especially if they died at his hands.

"I can't." Was his defeated answer.

"Choose one to die," the older man said sternly, "or they all die."

D'Artagnan was beginning to panic, looking frightfully from face to face. Constance and Marci were crying shamelessly, Aubin and Ceron attempting at their best not to; Aramis and Porthos nodded to him, and his parents had grim understanding laced their features. Athos, though, looked at him with a fire in his eyes so fierce that D'Artagnan took a step back unconciously. The expression said, "_think, D'Artagnan, think!"_

He swiveled where he stood, pivoting to look about the room as if for an escape, the words, "think with your head, not your heart!" echoing throughout his mind. Though it was in these panicked, flashing moments that he noticed something that he had previously disregarded, and a triumphant grin crossed his pale lips.

"I choose myself." D'Artagnan said quietly, and Cornelius appeared taken aback.

"Against the rules."

"No," D'Artagnan corrected, a sly smile still sitting on his face, "you clearing said, "choose one to die in this circle."" Spreading his arms wide, he gestured around and behind him, where the thin borderlines of the circle lay. "I'm in the circle. You didn't say anything about any further rules, and therefore they don't apply."

D'Artagnan looked to Athos for approval, but the man was glaring at him like he had suddenly joined forces with the Cardinal; this was obviously _not_ what he had been trying to convey.

Cornelius stomped his foot, losing his composure completely. "Fine!" he snapped, and grabbed a pistol. Before D'Artagnan could blink he heard a gun shot, saw a blur pass his vision, heard a grunt, yet felt no pain. He glanced down in shock, only to find Athos on the ground, all too still, with blood pooling under him onto the floor.

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**Uh oh...what's going to happen to our brave musketeer? That's all I have for now, folks, so tune in next week and have a great day!**


	18. Chapter 18

**kay, viewers! I feel I've left you in suspense long enough! Here's the next chapter! BTW, I am very bad at writing action scenes much less sword fighting, so please excuse the probably failed attempt to spice things up and make them intense... **

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For the next few minutes, all D'Artagnan saw was red. He stared in shock down at Athos, his friend, lifeless upon the ground, and completely lost all self control he had previously contained. Now, he was a wild, whirling and extremely _angry beast, _for the moment his sole purpose in life to rip the person who did this to shreds. D'Artagnan's gaze slowly switched from Athos to Cornelius, and upon studying his enemy D'Artagnan found that he actually looked...frightened. Of him? D'Artagnan no longer cared.

Cornelius's expression suddenly changed from one of fright to that of amusement as he laughed. "You, Gascon boy, really gave me a run for my money there, I'll admit it! Well, at least I get to kill you more memorably now with actual defeat, and I took two of you down in one try." D'Artagnan began to seethe, but did not act. Athos, if he had taught him anything, it was to be patient and wait for the slip up. "Oh, but of course I won't kill you immediately," Cornelius had the gall to continue his little speech, seeing as D'Artagnan had not yet acted. "I'll make you watch as I kill your family one by one, tear them with my bear hands limb from limb, starting," he paused for dramatic effect before a psychopathically sick smile lit up his face, "with the little girl." D'Artagnan was at his last edge, his nose was beginning to itch furiously(1). Yet he stood still, unmoving. "And she won't be able to fight me," Cornelius added softly, "just like that little brat couldn't." This made D'Artagnan's blood run cold. "What was his name? I believe it started with a P. Pierre, maybe? Oh, now I remember," he entertained himself by falsly guessing, as if his memory strained to remember the murder, "was it..Henri?"

This was it, the last stray for our young musketeer. With a roar he launched himself upon his foe, sword out and at the ready as he clashed furiously with Cornelius's, the latter laughing at his attempts. "Yes, come now boy, live up to the rumors!" D'Artagnan's face was a twisted mask of absolute wrath as he blocked a strike that would have cut off his head. Then he parried, watched his footing as he remembered Athos's lessons and lectures, and took three bold steps forward as he berated his opponent and forced him to back up. Cornelius's smile faded slighty as he began to concentrate, biting the side of his lip out of habit and attempting to strike at D'Artagnan's heart. D'Artagnan hit it aside with ease and again began to fight for more ground. He struck Cornelius's unguarded shoulder and the older man cried out, backing up, before his face began stoic again as he huffed and re-entered the fight with far more determination than before as he began taking the younger man seriously for the first time since challenging him by slaughtering his brother and threatening his family.

D'Artagnan raised his sword over his head in a mock strike which he expected his opponent to follow; instead, Cornelius slashed him across the stomach, making the younger man recoil with a pain filled gasp. Yellow teeth glinted in the torchlight of the otherwise dark room and D'Artagnan forced himself to straighten and think through the fog, chanting to himself, "remember your family. Remember your friends. Fight!" He again attempted a jab which the other easily blocked; and so it was, back and forth, gaining and losing ground, tossing to and fro. It was a stalemate to the extreme and both fighters began to weary; D'Artagnan's block's slower, Cornelius's atttacks more detailed and further apart as he re-thought his previous idea and studied his enemy carefully. D'Artagnan manuevered his body so he was forever facing Cornelius though still had perfect sight of his family, in case the man were to fight dirty.

Then, his gaze wandered to Athos again unwittingly- and then the man was renewed. Strength coursed through his veins, power surging into his exhausted muscles as he lunged towards his assassin, poised to strike where he could not block- D'Artagnan had observed his left side was particularly undefended- and aiming to kill.

His eyes were ablaze as he pushed his sword up against Cornelius's and forcing the other man's against his own chest, and breathed, "you hurt my friend and have murdered one of my family. You will perish, and it is a promise." Cornelius, attempting to look as though he was not unnerved, laughed, though his voice quavered slightly.

"You can't beat me that easy," was the hissed response before D'Artagnan felt something plung deep and imbed itself in his leg. He cried out and unwillingly collapsed to the ground, gazing up at the dirty cheater. Dots danced in front of his eyes as pain exploded from his thigh and blackness tinted the edges of his vision. He feared he would pass out, but swallowed the bile building up in the back of his throat and inhaled sharply, trying very hard to hold back the tears forming in his eyes and biting his lip to the point of blood to keep a whimper inside. "Weren't you taught boy," Cornelius snickered lazily, "that you can fight fair, though your opponent may not?" D'Artagnan gripped the dagger hilt, intending to pull it out for he felt as though the whole limb were on fire; but he remembered Aramis's words from long ago:

_You see, if you pull something out too fast or too soon, it could start bleeding profusely, for the weapon could have been the only thing staunching the blood flow. Best to wait and see, D'Artagnan._

He could almost hear his dear friend now instead of from that day; D'Artagnan had gotten a nasty flesh wound from one of the Cardinal's guards in a skirmish, it having struck only his arm but painful nonetheless and Aramis explaining this to him as he bound it.

Now, in this situation, D'Artagnan slowly loosened his grip despite the pain and took a few deep breaths in attempts to calm himself. He could feel the sharp, pulsing adrenaline from only a few moments ago leaving him, it making him feel weak and quite vulnerable. He no longer possessed that raging fire that had consumed his entire being and caused his to fling himself at his enemy. Now there was only pain.

He stared up at the older man as he slowly paced around his downed prey, as if readying himself for the final strike; however he paused when D'Artagnan let out a small, breathy laugh. "What?" he demanded, yet D'Artagnan merely shook his head. "WHAT?!"

"It's nothing, truly," D'Artagnan sighed as his chuckles faded yet his grin did not.

Cornelius's eye twitched. "Tell me," he commanded, "tell me now!"

"Alright," D'Artagnan replied, "But it's sure to make you angry."

"TELL ME!" Cornelius shouted, and D'Artagnan obeyed.

"It's just," the young man paused, appearing to think, "that you haven't truly won."

This successfully confused Cornelius, yet did not give D'Artagnan the distraction that he truly needed. "What? Of course I've won. I've taken everything from you, killed your brother, kidnapped your family, killed your mentor and overpowered you."

D'Artagnan shook his head. "Yet I won't bow to you," he explained. "I would only be truly defeated, in mind and body, were I enslaved; though seeing as I am not- well, I'm not truly overcome, am I?" D'Artagnan let this sink in before continuing. "This is what I laugh about, you see. Even when you think you've won, I know you haven't."

"Well," Cornelius said after many moments of consideration, "I am unsatisfied."

"Told you!" D'Artagnan exclaimed as though surprised. "I'm sorry you couldn't enjot my truly terrible death more now that I'm actually okay with it."

"Hm?"

"Well you see, I've made my peace with it. Hey, we all have to die at some point don't we?" D'Artagnan raised an eyebrow and smirked, shrugging as best as he could. "I guess it's just...my time." Cornelius growled and began to pace, turning his back to his injured enemy only for a moment; yet it was all the time D'Artagnan needed as he used the last of his strength to spring up, and before Cornelius could blink and the onlookers could comprehend what was happening, he plunged his sword through the assassin's back, it going through his middle and out the other side.

A gasped of astonishment echoed throughout the room; however it was not from the captives, rather the captor. He stared at D'Artagnan with unfocused blue eyes as D'Artagnan looked down at him with a frown and said with conviction, "Go to hell." Then he jerked his sword out of the body and it collapsed, the weapon having been the only thing keeping the person upright. There was little blood to be shed from the Black Plague; he was dead before he hit the ground.

A chorus of relief filled sighs came from his friends and family, and he ungagged them all while pausing before Constance, cupping her head in his hands and saying with concern while running his fingers softly through her hair, "Are you okay?"

She nodded shakily, before nodding her head behind him. That's right. Athos.

D'Artagnan's eyes widened as he was stricken with fear; however he turned, and ran as fast as his feet could fly to his friend, skidding across the floor and dropping hard to his knees, not caring about how much they hurt on the stone. "ATHOS!" He quickly turned his mentor over, tears blurring his vision which he wiped away angrily. Now was not the time to loose his composure. "Athos?"

It was a whisper, he could not manage anymore.

Athos was so unbelievably pale even with the light provided by torches; his face was relaxed, his brow unscrunched. He looked very peaceful, and D'Artagnan could've believed he was only asleep.

"No..." He moaned as he shook Athos's shoulder. "Come on, Athos. It's- it's time to go home. We got him. We gotta go home." Silence met this. "Athos? Please, Athos- I wanna go home now." He was whimpering and he knew it. The tears, hot and salty, ran unceasingingly down his cheeks.

And then he wept openly.

He wept for wanting, he cried for the situation, and sobbed for love. The love of his comrade, his mentor, his companion. His brother in arms, his teacher, his friend.

He felt Aramis's impossibly soft hand upon his shoulder, and he turned a grief stricken face up to the priest with tormented blue eyes. Aramis kneeled next to him, silent, knowing. And then D'Artagnan buried his face in the shoulder and absolutely cried his heart out.

And then his mother was there, and he was crying on her shoulder instead. She cradled him, and attempted to soothe him. All he managed to gulp out was, "He- he w-was m-my-" he swallowed, then wailed, "my friend!"

D'Artagnan was sure there were other people crying- he could see Marci clutching his father's pant leg as Bertrand tried unsuccessfully to calm the poor girl, and he was sure his friends Porthos and Aramis were grieving in their own way- silently, and they'd wait until they believed they were unheard and unnoticed as they let out their sorrows in the dead of night.

A groan sounded next to him, and it made D'Artagnan glanced to the side to see a pair of eyes blearily looking into his own. He dared not think, much less hope... "Athos?"

A grunt. "Wha's with all this crying?"

"ATHOS!"

"Aye, no need to shout lad. Your voice is twenty times louder taking away that blasted echo, I sw- swear I must've drank a little more than I could handle..." A soft chuckle followed this. Then he gasped, eyes flashing in pain before clenching tightly. "This shoulder of mine really is- giving me a- pain though..." He opened them again and looked around. "Where are we?"

D'Artagnan smiled softly, eyes red rimmed and voice hoarse, "safe for now. Come on, lets get you to a doctor."

Aramis came forth with a hanky, muttering, "there was no pulse...how?" But he seemed too relieved and pleasantly surprised to care much.

He staunched the blood flow as best they could, Marci holding Athos's hand and saying, "oh Uncle Athos! You're okay!" Athos couldn't help but smile as she carefully wrapped her skinny, twig like arms around his neck and tried to avoid him any discomfort.

Bertrand subtly leaned over to D'Artagnan, saying out of the side of his mouth, "Since when is he Uncle Athos?"

D'Artagnan chuckled. "S'long story."

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**aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand lame ending, yet where would we be without them? I at least wanted Athos to wake up not to worry you viewers, and hopefully the next chapter will come soon. I apologize in advance if it doesn't...**

**Anyway, lame chapter or no? I think so, I don't like how I ended this but oh well, did my best. :) Remember to tell me what you think!**


	19. Chapter 19

**Hello, viewers! Hope you like the chapter. Again, late. Yeah... Anyways- THE NEW PSYCH SEASON JUST CAME OUT FOR ME AND OH MY DEAR BUTTER! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH! SOOOOOOO GOOD! No spoilers :D **

* * *

Aubin, Ceron and Marci stared out the second story window down the street, where they could still clearly see the fading figures of Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and D'Artagnan. All were on horseback and had their hats on, yet the only one Aubin could recognize at the moment was D'Artagnan's; he was wearing Father's, who had given it to him for his fifteenth birthday.

Sighing to himself and sliding down the wall to come to rest under the light of the window, Aubin huffed, frustrated. He _knew_ he could help. Give him a sword, and he'd be able to defend them. Make him bait, he'd distract them well. But leave him behind? He could do absolutely nothing.

"Well," Ceron said, plopping down next to him, "what now?"

Aubin shrugged. "Wait for them to come back."

"Have you lost your marbles?" Ceron demanded, staring at him. "What do you_ mean_, 'wait for them to come back?' Aubin, you always have a plan- frankly, most of the time we get caught, yet a plan nonetheless other than just _sitting_ here like useless sacks! We could, at least, be the distraction!"

"What do you expect, Ceron?!" Aubin heatedly threw back at his twin. "It's not as though we know where they're going, anyhow!"

"We could follow them," Ceron suggested. Aubin sighed; being older by two minutes, it meant he was expected to be the responsible one when D'Artagnan was not around and protect his younger siblings. He was attempting to follow after D'Artagnan's nature towards them, noting how he was always willing to take up chores, help out, and by personality be over protective.

It was not working. And, if he was completely honest with himself, he was going to sneak after the party of musketeers anyway- just more subtly, so he didn't have to bring them along and put them in danger.

That plan was soiled in that moment. "Look, guys," Aubin tried, attempting to conjure up a cover story out of nowhere, "You'd be of more use-"

"Don't feed us that!" Ceron said sourly, pulling a face. Aubin stared at his fraternal twin; Ceron had never talked like that, ever. Aubin couldn't remember a time his younger brother had lost his temper- after all, he was rather sophisticated considering their status. "If you're going, we're coming, whether with you or tailing you."

Aubin realized that this was true, and he roped himself into a trap. He had to bring them with him, or else they would just get into probably more trouble and more hurt, put at risk more often. He sighed. Being responsible sucked.

"Okay," he caved, and they both wore triumphant grins, "but you need to follow the plan."

There were a few moments of silence, before, "...so, what's the plan?"

"Good question," Aubin countered. "Give me a moment." Besides, his internal dialogue continued, he could just leave them to guard the outside gates or something of the manor, something easy, non important, an not extremely dangerous. "We'll improvise." Aubin concluded after a moment, and his twin and little sister grinned.

"My favorite," Ceron said with a wicked smile.

They made their way down the stairs, grabbing their cloaks and swords (Marci was provided a wooden one so she didn't hurt herself with the sharp iron) and then they were off, all on one horse seeing as Planchet's was in the barn, and he was at the market. _This was almost too easy, _Aubin thought to himself with some unease.

"This is almost too easy," Ceron muttered to him a second later, and Aubin inwardly chuckled.

"My thoughts exactly, little brother," he muttered back out of the corner of his mouth, and Ceron's grip tightened around his torso. "Don't you fret, Ceron. I'll look after us."

"I know."

The afternoon of nonstop riding and sliding around main roads and trails led them nowhere, and only succeeded in getting them frustrated and annoyed. After another ten minutes of being lost in twists and turns in order to not be suspected by the musketeers they were tailing, Aubin let go of the reins and put his hot face in his hands for a moment, rubbing them up and down his face.

This was his mistake, though.

In a split second Marci screamed and it was muffled; Ceron cried out but he heard a muffled grunt. Aubin was pulled from his postition faster than he could pull his sword from its sheath and in only a few moments he found himself disarmed, gagged, and bound, with a bag over his head. He was paralyzed with fear, and couldn't think through the muddled thoughts- he could only keep repeating his inner monologue of, "_no, not again not again not again. No, please, please-"_

But that was when everything went dark.

* * *

_Dark. He was unsure where he was, but he knew it was dark. There was a throbbing, all consuming pain in his leg and torso; it didn't do to move, that sent jolts through his limbs like nothing he had ever experienced. The dark room lit up with a circle, as the assassin said, "choose one to die."_

_He was confused. He had killed him- he remembered perfectly how. He had run him through, saying with venom, "go to hell." And then the evil being had perished along with his brother._

_But here he was again, standing before him. Worry and confusion clouded his mind as he gazed at his bound and gagged friends and family. His gaze wandered over to Athos..._

_He was staring at him with a blindingly white face, but it was full of loathing. "D'Artagnan," he whispered, almost brokenly had not the voice been so full of hate, "D'Artagnan..."_

"D'Artagan! D'Artagan!"

_"D'Artagnan...D'Artagnan..."_

"D'Artagnan, wake up!"

_"D'Artagnan..."_

"NOW!"

He shot up, sweaty and panting. Arms were holding him, holding him-

He fought, yet they remained firm. A voice was in his ear, "D'Artagnan, do not be alarmed. It is I, Aramis." He calmed enough to recognize the soft, tenor voice as the priest's, and buried his face in his vest.

"Oh Aramis," he wept, "it was terrible. His face, his face- his eyes. I shan't forget his expression."

"Shh," he rocked D'Artagnan, arms around him and voice gently, soothing, "do not speak of it, lest you never forget."

"B-but-" D'Artagnan stuttered.

"You are feverish, and dreaming, D'Artagnan. Do not be alarmed," The pious man repeated softly, and through his foggy mind he comprehended.

"Feverish?"

"Yes, feverish," Aramis patiently said again, and D'Artagnan thanked him graciously in his mind.

"How?" He had only just realized how croaky his voice sounded.

"You were stabbed in the leg." Aramis explained, yet it had more of the nature of a scold surrounding it. "Why did you not speak of it?"

"Because," D'Artagnan stated quietly, "there were more pressing things at hand." He paused, a panic overtaking him. "Aramis," he struggled to form words, "A-Aramis, Aramis- where is he, where is he? Where is Athos?"

A grunt came from right next to him, and he looked from where he had been tightly gripping the muscular shoulders to his right. Athos was lying next to him, bundled in blankets and coats. It was nightime, he finally noticed. The stars were out, casting their ghost-like, ethereal glow upon the blades of grass, and highlighting the newly formed dew on each individual stalk.

"Here, D'Artagnan." The kind voice of his mentor soothed him in ways he could not describe, and his body untensed.

"Athos," he breathed, and Aramis eased him down back onto the grass. Blankets and jackets were placed over him as well, someone was cradling his head- Constance. That's right, they had escaped. Athos had been wounded, shot- "are you alright?"

"Been better," Came the slightly strained and weary answer, "but alive, and that's what matters." A prominent pause, then, "Congratulations, by the way, defeating the Count Marmanium."

The praise was music to D'Artagnan's ears- here was Athos, strict, hard, perfectionalist Athos- telling him that his stupid little improvisation had been worthy of congrats?

"Thanks," he slurred. His brain did not seem to be working right; everything was hazy, his brain filled with a fog that he couldn't banish easily. He groped for Athos's hand through the sliver of conciousness he still possessed, found it, gripped it tight for a moment as he descending into darkness once again.

* * *

Something cool was bathing his brow, and it struck him like a whip to the face. He whimpered, turning his head away, only to be shushed quietly and have that ice cold liquid- for he had determined it was a liquid- coat his forehead once more. Every time he moved it sent jolts of electric pain, white hot, to his leg and head, and he could feel it throb with every pulse in his temple.

"N-no," he moaned, pushing the gentle hands away. That shushing again- that was getting annoying. "Stop- stop, cold." Still, it continued, and his headache increased. "P-please," came the weakened plea.

The rag was pulled away, and the pain eased its hold on him slightly. His teeth chattered. "Cold." He muttered.

"I'm sorry, dear," the gentle voice of his mother said softly while he felt something else be draped over him.

"Where?"

"Almost back to Paris," his mother whispered. He was confused. Why did he hurt so much? Where was Athos? Aramis? Porthos? They always made it better. They'd make this better too. And his headache. He needed to find them, know where they were.

"Athos?" he rasped, "Aramis? Por-Porth-" but a coughing fit claimed him, swallowing the rest of the name. "Athos!" He gasped, "Athos! A-Ath-"

"Sh." Next to him. His foggy mind recognized the gruff voice. Athos. "I'm here. Relax, D'Artagnan, I'm here. It will be over soon. You'll breathe again."

He hacked until he was breathless and his lungs burned, and although he was panicked, he was not frightened. Athos said he'd breathe again, and so he would- it was just a matter of time. Athos wouldn't lie. He'd make this better.

Finally it ceased, and he took a deep breath, gasping. That damned cloth again-

"Please!" He was angrier, now. "Stop- that hurts!" There was a sharp sound of someone intaking breath before something warm- a hand, he concluded- resting upon his brow.

"I'm so sorry, Charles-"

Charles. His mother only ever called him that. Or else he was known as D'Artagnan Jr.

"It's all right, Mother." He cracked open his eyes to find her staring down at him. He smiled reassuringly before softly pressing her hand, which was lying upon his chest; his head was in her lap. "How far are we from Paris?"

"Not far, now," she responded, and D'Artagnan did not press, yawning. "Sleep, sweetheart," she murmured in a low tone, "I will be here when you wake."

And he did.

* * *

D'Artagnan looked almost exactly like Bertrand- same hair, chin, nose. They probably didn't go anywhere without being compared to one another. D'Artagnan could be his father's duplicate.

However, D'Artagnan had fair, pale skin, like his mother. He had his mother's eyes, and his mother's small frame. Bertrand was more suntanned, stockier, and had dark hazel eyes- still handsome, but not like the bright, vibrant blue of D'Artagnan's. These were the observations that Aramis made as he stood, near helpless and on the edge of madness, as his two most valued companions (besides Porthos) lay injured and unmoving in the arms of the strangers. Strangers who new what was at stake, and what haste was required.

"We need to make way," Aramis input quietly, but the silence was strong and it sliced through it as though a knife.

"Of course," Bertrand said, hoisting his son over the saddle of the horse with little to no effort; D'Artagnan was slimmer than it seemed, despite the musketeer's endeavors to put meat on his bones. Aramis, with little help from Porthos, lifted him over Aramis's horse, and climbed on after. He pulled the reins around Athos and placed another arm around his friend's chest to steady him, before clicking his horse to a gallop.

The riding arrangment was as so, since they had only four horses and nine people; Annette, Constance, and Marci on one horse; Aubin, Ceron, and Porthos on another; Bertrand and D'Artagnan on Buttercup and Aramis and Athos on Aramis's mustang.

They made little headway before they were forced to stop, a cloaked figure wearing all black in their paths. "Who goes there?"

"Who's asking?" Aramis replied sharply.

"It's no concern of yours, but should you wish to pass, you shall answer. I will only ask once more. Who goes there?"

* * *

**Again, I can't apologize enough for this being so late. The next chapter will be up whenever I get the chance to write, my life got incredibly busy and still is until Tuesday so hopefully then I'll have some free time to get the next chapter up. They should get more frequent after Tuesday, and then the ball will be rolling along again. Leave a comment plz on what you think!**

**~BlackBandit111**


	20. Chapter 20

**Holy moly! The days certainly got away from me on this one! You know how I said my life should clear up around Tuesday of, oh say...last month? ...I was wrong.**

* * *

Previously, in this story:

D'Artagnan had defeated Cornelius Marmanium A.K.A the Black Plague by stabbing him. However, before he defeated him Black Plague managed to shoot Athos in the shoulder and everyone thought he was dead. D'Artagnan's parents and siblings as well as Constance, Aramis, and Porthos were all tied up until D'Artagnan until them and ran to Athos's side where he discovered Athos was actually alive. D'Artagnan, in the fight to the death with the Black Plague, was stabbed in the thigh and fainted because he didn't tell anyone about it, worried about Athos. Now they are on their way back to Paris to treat both Athos's and D'Artagnan's serious wounds, but their path is blocked by a mysterious figure asking them who they are. The company is in much haste because both injured musketeers are losing a lot of blood, yet the cloaked figure won't let them pass. Aramis goes to ask him who he is, yet the figure supplies little details pretaining to his identity, and all fear that he is working for Black Plague if they reveal their own identities. Okay, now onto to the story!

* * *

"It's no concern of yours, but should you wish to pass, you shall answer. I will only ask once more. Who goes there?"

"It is I, Aramis," Aramis finally decided, "and my companions, M. D'Artagnan, M. Porthos, M. D'Artagnan Senior, M. Athos, Madame Annete, Madamoiselle Constance, Madamoiselle Marcelle, M. Ceron and M. Aubin."

"No? Its not the Aramis, Athos, D'Artagnan and Porthos is it?" The cloaked figure asked, pulling down his hood and his face lighting up in glee. The face was familar to Aramis, one he had seen on only one other occasion-

"Monsieur...Tromoure?" D'Artagnan mumbled, face turned into Bertrand's neck and eyes opened blearily.

"Dear G-d, what's happened?" Tromoure said, glancing from Athos to D'Artagnan, who was blinking slowly and fisting his eyes like a small child would. Troumoure came forth, mouth agape in shock, and said, "Here, give one of them to me- I'll fly faster in less of a group, surely, and the nearest town- I know back-routes, that will get me there faster-"

Aramis didn't hesitate to gesture for Bertrand to hand over D'Artagnan, replying quickly, "I'll take Athos and follow you- Bertrand-"

"I'll stay with Porthos," Bertrand confirmed with a nod, glancing at their rather large group. "Aramis," he said, hushed, "hurry. Please. We'll meet you in the town. Don't delay, we have this handled- go, go!"

After Troumoure made sure his grip on D'Artagnan was secure, the boy's breath clearly on his neck and his nose digging slightly into his shoulder, he spurred his horse into action. D'Artagnan moaned into his neck at the sudden movement- Troumoure feeling extremely guitly all the time- as they traveled through the forest at breakneck speeds. Troumoure was aware Aramis was not far behind him.

Their horses expertly dodged fallen tree branches or blocked ways, and avoided large streams, passing them at smaller creeks. D'Artagnan had tried to fall asleep, or even into a light doze; yet the constant bouncing and jerking of the horse below him prevented it. Troumoure would feel him slack, tense, then groan, and it sent pangs through his heart at each one.

"I'm sorry, D'Artagnan," he'd continuously mutter, "I'm so, so sorry."

"S'kay," he'd murmur back, sounding at the edge of sleep, only to be jolted back to the world of pain and consciousness with each move the horse made. D'Artagnan's words had made Troumoure feel no better, partially because he knew that sleep on horseback was nearly impossible, and he had heard tales of the boy's famed selflessness; he didn't believe one word out of D'Artagnan's mouth here would be to his own benefit.

Finally, it having taken seemingly longer than it should've, they approached a gate to a nearby-_ or not as nearby as he had previously thought,_ Troumoure thought to himself ruefully- town which hopefully had a quick-responding physician, and a good inn to rest in. He scanned the buildings, attempting to read the signs on the doors and calling to Aramis to stop in front of the old inn.

Inside, it wasn't too shabby looking a place- it certainly had many customers in the dining area, anyway- yet Troumoure's troubles were far more than those pretaining to the inn quality. "Help! Someone, fetch the physician!" He called, holding D'Artagnan in his arms like a child, cradling him gently in hopes that he would not harm him further. D'Artagnan merely moaned in his arms and fisted in his vest, holding it tightly bunched up into his hand. Troumoure looked down into the young face, not yet having stepped quite into manhood, but pinched and aged more in the last month or so than in the last eighteen years of his life. D'Artagnan was a remarkable young man, and didn't deserve the injuries- physical and emotional- that he had suffered.

The door to the inn burst open, and a young man in a white tunic carrying a bag screamed at Troumoure and Aramis, "What are you _doing_, standing around? Get them up to rooms, blimey people!" Troumoure blinked, taking in the man's full appearance. He looked extremely on edge and ruffled, as though he had run all the way here from his house, wherever his house may be. He had intelligently bright green eyes and brown hair, and didn't look all that unnattractive. "Oi you! Stop gazing at me like a lovestruck girl and get them to a room upstairs!" The young man commanded, and Troumoure blinked again, surprised that this man, not even his senior, was telling him what to do. However, he didn't have time or patience to spare for an argument, so he did as told and carried D'Artagnan gently up the steps, trying his best not to joggly the boy too much. If D'Artagnan was feeling any additional pain, he didn't show it.

Troumoure noticed an open door directly to his left, not caring whether or not this room was occupied at the moment, and tried to softly place D'Artagnan down. When Troumoure dried to pry D'Artagnan's hand off of his shirt, he whimpered, and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Athos...don't go..." But the boy had spoken so muddled and quietly that Troumoure couldn't be sure.

Aramis, Troumoure assumed, was in the other room, and the physician was with them because he wasn't with D'Artagnan and he. His theory was proven right when a hoarse scream echoed out into the hallway and reached the room which signified the closing of Athos's wound. Troumoure winced in sympathy, having had the same thing done to him once, and shuddered, glancing down at D'Artagnan. The boy's brow glistened with sweat and his breaths came in pants. He groaned again, thrashing slightly on the bed, but Troumoure grabbed both his wrists and crooned to D'Artagnan to calm him. It was nonsense, really, things like, "It'll pass; you'll be alright; I'm here, you're safe; they can't hurt you." And to Troumoure's surprise, his words seemed to puncture the alternate reality D'Artagnan knew, because he stilled, his face growing a bit more peaceful, and he sighed heavily.

The physician bursted in then, Aramis not close behind, and closed the door to the hallway. "Right," he said hurriedly, heading over to the fireplace and sticking a dagger in the coals, "You-" he pointed to Aramis, "hold his upper body like you did with the other one. He'll thrash, it won't tickle and I won't lie." He gestured to Troumoure. "You, you hold his feet firm, he'll kick out." Then, he addressed both of them with a little more kindness, his face softening slightly. "I won't lie," he repeated, "It isn't going to feel good. He might scream, beg, plea, or even cry- do not, under any circumstance, no matter how much you can't take it, let go. Got me?" The bright eyes stared sharply at the two of them, who both nodded determinedly.

"Alright, get ready now," the young man instructed and Troumoure and Aramis took the assigned posts. D'Artagnan was so still, so...unexpecting. The physician cut away D'Artagnan's pant leg just high enough to see the gash the dagger had left, then returned to the fireplace. Carrying the now red-hot dagger that had been heating in the coals over, he placed it firmly on the wound on D'Artagnan's inside leg, just above his knee.

Troumoure thought he had heard screams, but none were like this. The boy squirmed more than thrashed, having almost no energy to do anything more. Tears were streaming and the babbling began. "Please, I'll do it, I'll do what you-" another scream. "Please!" he sobbed, "please!" Troumoure shut his eyes, wishing he could plug his ears, but maintained a strong hold on D'Artagnan's kicking legs.

Just when Troumoure thought he could take no more, the screaming abruptly stopped and the knife was removed. Upon inspection, D'Artagnan had passed out from pain. "Dear God," Aramis said quietly in horror, making the sign of the cross, "I thought he was going to pass out ages ago."

Troumoure only nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

* * *

**aaaaaaand then there's the recovery chapter that will be nagging at me to write. All right viewers, a review for your thoughts? How angry you are this is so late even? **viewers come at me holding pitchforks** next one up soon, I'll try! **


	21. Chapter 21

**Hello, viewers! I hope none of you were too angry for the lateness of last post, however I hope it was okay-ish...and that this is the very LAST chapter of Revenge is Cruel. There are just a few things I'd like to say- it won't be lengthy. But I want to say that I hope you readers have had as much fun reading this as I have had writing it for all of you. Thanks for all the feedback, favorites, follows and reviews. And thanks for waiting patiently, all the positive response, and bearing with me until the end. :)**

* * *

D'Artagnan opened his altogether too-heavy eyelids slowly, trying to gain his bearings. Last thing he remembered was...Troumoure? On a horse? The sound of hooves...being spoken to softly, but unable to make out words and then...nothing. It was not as though D'Artagnan wasn't concerned that he couldn't move and his whole body felt like it was on fire, he was worried far more with the reason that he couldn't remember _why_ or _how_ he had been rendered in this state of non-movement.

Taking a deep, calming breath, he lay there with his eyes closed, breathing deeply to try to still his racing, panicked pulse. Once accomplishing this and being to think a little straighter, D'Artagnan wondered how his companions were. He knew Athos...Athos! He had been shot and he, D'Artagnan, had been...stabbed? Through the leg?

Wincing and hissing through his teeth as a new pain came to his awareness, D'Artagnan realized that 'stabbed through the leg' was a satisfying explanation to the throbbing pulsing through his thigh. Everything ached, and the fact that he was just too _hot_ wasn't helping. He attempted to kick off the covers, and found once removed, freezing air hit his burning skin, soothing it. However, there was a shushing sound, and the heavy eiderdown was replaced around and under his chin again.

Frustrated and now annoyed with whoever had fixed the blanket and enforced uncomfortableness upon him, he again attempted to remove the comforter with the same response. He growled, opening his bleary eyes to find everything dulled and out of focus. Blinking several times to repair his sight and accomplishing this, he scanned the room.

His gaze landed on a rather plump, middle aged woman, wearing a light blue dress and smiling softly at him. She had an altogether motherly appearance about her which D'Artagnan felt comforted by; but again, he was too hot. He grunted his disapproval and kicked the covers off again. "Now, young man," she said sternly, pullling them yet again back up to his chin and some chocolate locks falling out of her bun, "leave it be."

"But-"

"No buts, anyhow," she replied firmly. "Sit tight, you must be starving."

And now that she mentioned it, D'Artagnan felt it; the deep chasm of his stomach suddenly felt as if it were ready to shrivel up if he didn't eat something _now_. And his throat- oh gods, his throat- felt like it had been ripped and slashed out by wolves.

"Ugh," he moaned, and she left with a sympathetic nod his way. Watching her retreating shadow fade on the wall and assuming she was now down the hall, D'Artagnan once again removed the covers, but instead of remaining in bed, slowly sat up. Grunting as quietly as he could manage, attempted to stand.

Which was a mistake.

D'Artagnan went toppling over forwards with a short cry of alarm before hitting the hardwood floors on his stomach. Laying there, unable-or unwilling- to move and in pain, D'Artagnan could only moan in torture as his whole body protested the movement, screaming at him, _for God's sake, stay down! I'm down for the count, the least you could do is not MOVE!_

He clenched his eyes shut, and concentrated on the only thing that could calm him down. His breathing. _In through the nose, out through the mouth,_ he instructed himself slowly._ In through nose, out through mouth. _ A gasp from the doorway and the sound of shuffling feet made his blue eyes shoot open, where the motherly figure from before had come bustling back in with soup on a platter.

"Oi, boy," she reprimanded, slapping his cheek and trying to hoist him up, "what did I tell you?" D'Artagnan only moaned in reply.

* * *

Troumoure had been gently dozing in a separate room he shared with Aramis, rented from the inn, when he heard the commotion and his eyes snapped open. Groaning and rousing from his uncomfortable position, he stretched for a moment, enjoying the feeling of un-kinking muscles, before blinking the sleep out of his eyes and exiting the room. He glanced down the hallway, deciphering which way the sounds had come, and decided to try D'Artagnan's room first.

Upon entering and seeing the situation that was ensuing, he gasped, trying to contain the snort that was fighting valiantly to escape. D'Artagnan appeared to be on the floor, having fallen out fo bed, with the mother-like inn keeper named Cozette leaning over him. Stifling his last chuckle, he offered, "would you guys like some help with that?" Cozette's head snapped up and D'Artagnan huffed breathily at the sound of his voice. He took Cozette's large, confused eyes and frustrated body language as a yes.

Troumoure made his way into the room, striding confidently over to D'Artagnan and lifting him easily, hands under both D'Artagnan's arms. With little to no effort put forth, Troumoure lightly placed the boy back in bed, going so far as to place the blankets back around him. D'Artagnan's large, impossibly blue eyes gazed up at him and blinked in greeting. "Troumoure," he said quietly, a small nod of his head accompanying this.

"D'Artagnan," Troumoure returned, bowing his own head, before swiftly gathering how it had happened. D'Artagnan had woken up hungry, Cozette went to fetch him soup, and D'Artagnan had conjured up the brilliant idea to try to get up. But just to be sure, "why in the world," Troumoure asked pointedly to the young man lying before him, "were you on the floor?" D'Artagnan muttered something un-defineable. "What?"

"Wanted to check on Athos." Came the even quieter response. Troumoure sighed. Even on his near death-bed, D'Artagnan was, of course, worried about Athos.

"I'm right here, boy. You were really foolish enough to try to get up?" D'Artagnan's eyes shot open to see Athos, leaning dependently on Aramis and hanging on the doorframe, standing in the doorway.

"Athos!"

"Yes," Athos growled, "stop shouting. I've just lost a headache I'd had for a good hour and I don't want you bringing it back."

D'Artagnan replied considerably quieter, "sorry, Athos."

A wry and uncharastic smile crossed Athos's face. "Good to have you back in the world of the living, boy," he muttered.

"How long was I out?" D'Artagnan said, suddenly slightly fearful. He had only gotten poisoned a short while ago and he had slept for four days; he had been stabbed how long ago and slept for what?

Athos rarely chuckled, but he did so now. "Relax, child," he said, "only for about a week." He held up a hand before D'Artagnan could interrupt with his panicked, "A WEEK?" "Yes," Athos continued, ignoring the startled look D'Artagnan was still sending him, "a week. Considering we've been back for that time, I think its suitable. Plus," he added hastily again before D'Artagnan could speak, "you were poisoned only a short while ago, battled an evil mastermind, managed to get yourself stabbed in the leg, then rode on a horse- staying conscious the whole time- back to this inn where Troumoure helped the physician seal the wound in your leg. You've had almost every rightful reason in the world to be unconscious for days on end."

D'Artagnan, pacified by Athos's wise words, merely inquired, "and how long have you been up and about, Athos?"

Athos allowed a grim smile to rest on his lips. "About two hours."

D'Artagnan couldn't help but grin. Yet a troubling thought occured to him and it faded, his brows creasing. "Where is my family?"

"Here, Tagnan!" Came a shrill voice as someone excitedly jumped on his legs. The pain in his thigh, which had lessened by quite a lot, flared back like oil to a fire and he cried out. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" Came Marci's frightened, tearful voice, regret noticeable in the tone. D'Artagnan opened his eyes from when they had been clenched, his own pain immediately forgotten.

"Marce," he soothed, rubbing up and down her arms. She was trembling and tears of regret ran down her cheeks. "It's alright. I'm fine- it has passed."

She brightened a little, sniffing and wiping at her eyes, before her smile returned. "Tagnan," she said, "you've been asleep for a long time." She wrapped her twig-like arms around his neck, now minding any injury he may possibly have and manuevering around him with exaggerated care. "I missed you!"

D'Artagnan grinned, hugging her tightly. "I missed you too, Marci."

Athos raised his eyebrows, watching the exchange. He had never seen D'Artagnan react to something like that- change his attitude and attention on a dime, disregarding his own ailments and tending immediately to his sister's. It amazed Athos that someone could care so much about another. But it was in that moment that he realized two things; one, he would do the exact same thing if that had been he and D'Artagnan, and two; he really was soft. He would die for his comrades and companions out in the field without a second thought. But just how many of them would he let fall asleep on his shoulder? Sit with him when he mused? Tell him about nightmares so he could ease away all the worries?

D'Artagnan, amongst Aramis and Porthos of course, was one of the only ones.

A small, nearly imperceptible creaking sound came from behind Athos, but years of training had heightened his senses and he heard the noise like it was a gong. He whirled around, too quickly and nearly losing his balance had it not been for Aramis, who caught him. There stood Bertrand, Annette, Aubin and Ceron. The twins were grinning like madmen who had just robbed a store.

"What did you two steal?" He asked, and their smiles faded. They glanced at each other nervously.

"Nothing!" They said in unison, and Athos nodded his head. Later. He'd deal with that later.

Then he realized he had been thinking about them as if they were his own children. He sighed, rubbing his face. It was time to face the fact that they weren't his- even though he'd grown accostomed to hearing their giggles as they slept, tucking them in at night should they ask- though the latter was usually Marci. Them observing as he and D'Artagnan practiced with the sword, or seeing them at the table for each meal through out the day.

Soon, he wouldn't have that anymore.

He hadn't noticed, but now that he had snapped out of his depressing thoughts, the people who were previously standing in the hallway had strode past him to greet D'Artagnan back to the world of the living. Quite frankly, Athos had been worrying himself sick- he hadn't eaten, he hadn't slept- god knew he had slept for far too long. He sat in bed, praying for God's sake- he never prayed- for D'Artagnan to be alright.

From what he had gathered from Aramis, D'Artagnan had developed a fever the first day, which had only just broken the day before Athos awoke. Thankful beyond belief Athos had sent a prayer up on a whim, a random desire to thank a higher power for all he'd spared, and all he'd saved.

Because without D'Artagnan, life was just not the same.

Before D'Artagnan had arrived in Paris, Athos had considered himself a rough and tumble, go with the wind, charting a course against destiny kind of a man. Then, the day he met D'Artagnan and compared himself to that, he realized that he was truly the kind of man who had nearly no friends. No close relationships. No real purpose, or goal. He was only a man who consumed his time doing what he had previously considered a go-with-the-wind approach, but was in reality only an empty shell of a life.

Yet D'Artagnan...D'Artagnan had arrived cocky- oh, hell knew he was cocky- and slightly arrogant, wandering around Paris on his first day like he owned the place. But the boy had guts, talent, and confidence- some of the key things that made up the Musketeer Corps- and Athos had seen great things in D'Artagnan that had yet to emerge.

Then, when he had taken up residence with them, he was kind to Planchet- manners were not beyond the young man and he used the frequently. He gave Planchet tips when he could spare a coin and listened without interruption as the servant stuttered through an explanation. He had showed bravery in the face of adversity- he went to England to retrieve the Queen of Paris's jewels under a time limit of five days to prevent war. He was innocent. He saw a cruel act performed that looked utterly wrong in D'Artagnan's eyes- whether it range to a murder, something not entirely uncommon, or someone pushed aside in the street.

D'Artagnan was accepting, understanding- still cocky and slightly arrogant, but Athos slowly brought him down a couple notches. He was becoming an amazing young man.

Life would stop continuing without D'Artagnan. Athos would crumble.

The family was embracing, and sharing stories and laughing together. Athos felt like he was intruding and turned to Aramis to make up an excuse to leave the room- he was tired, maybe- but he was beaten to it. Aramis was gazing at him with a knowing, calculating look. Athos only grunted, turned away, and made the slow trek back to his own chamber.

* * *

Summer came almost impossibly fast. During that time D'Artagnan and Athos took the time to heal both physically and mentally. The other people involved in the entire traumatic experience seized the opportunity for recovery, as well. D'Artagnan's family was still mourning over the loss of their youngest son and brother. It was effecting D'Artagnan especially, who woke up at night with cold sweats and terrible dreams of Henri's face leering at him in the darkness.

He had sat with Athos for about two weeks straight, refusing to give his body or mind the respite and rest it needed to recover, for fear of the nightmares. Athos finally confronted him about it, D'Artagnan had explained all his visions and asked Athos when it would end.

Athos had no answer, only that time would heal all wounds.

Now that they were completely nursed back to health and the relaxing participants growing bored, it was nearing the time for the musketeers to return to Paris, Troumoure to get back to his own kingdom, and D'Artagnan's family to head back to Gascony.

D'Artagnan didn't want them to go.

He spent many of his lazy days wandering around in the garden, thinking about Henri or brooding about the oncoming separation of his family when they were forced to go their different ways. He didn't even know the next time he would see his siblings again. He hated goodbyes.

He avoided the problem and the conversation even remotely related to them leaving, trying to escape the inevitable by not discussing the subject. Of course, it didn't work, but this only served to frustrate D'Artagnan further, and he drifted, trying to keep his contagious emotions to himself. It wouldn't do for his siblings to remember a mopey D'Artagnan should anything happen to them, or to him.

Reality had been a cold slap to the face for D'Artagnan. The world lost some of its magic, its wonder; danger lurked around every corner, enemies at every turn. D'Artagnan didn't want them to remember him as a bad brother, or child. But he couldn't bring himself to be around them; it made his heart ache, and would make leaving them all that much harder.

* * *

Avoiding the subject hadn't worked, and the day arrived much faster than D'Artagnan wished. Troumoure had been the first to depart, shaking D'Artagnan's hand and slapping his shoulder. He said he'd be in contact soon before mounting his horse and riding east. He didn't look back.

D'Artagnan embraced his mother and father tightly, as if he could hug them so hard that he could permanently imprint the feeling of the contact in his memory. He promised to write and visit as soon as he could before turning to the twins. He crouched down, ruffled their hair; told them to be good and help out. Told them not to miss him too much and to avoid hide-and-go-seek where they weren't meant to be. It aroused a good chuckle from all who understood the joke.

Marci was the worst.

He could barely talk when she walked up to him, all wide blue eyes and teary tear tracks on her cheeks. He hugged her softly now, her delicate, tiny frame so fragile he could snap it. "I love you, Tagnan," she whispered tearfully, pulling away and staring at him. Her bottom lip trembled. "I'll miss you."

He could barely talk- oh God, he was going to cry. "I'll-" he choked, "I'll miss you too, Marci."

"Tell Constance goodbye for me?" She asked, and he nodded. Tears of his own pricked at his eyes.

"Of course."

"Tagnan...I don't wanna go." She looked at him pleadingly. "Please don't make me."

D'Artagnan realized she was begging. But he shook his head, an action that was so much harder than most people would think. "You can't, Marce," he explained gently, gulping. He blinked the tears back, keeping them at bay, before continuing after a deep breath. "When we go on missions, who will take care of you?"

"Planchet," Marci replied weakly, as if she knew she had already lost the argument.

"What about Mother and Father? What will they do without you?" D'Artagnan asked, and Marci broke. Her face crumpled and she buried her face in his shoulder. He could feel the wetness of her tears.

"Please, Tagnan!" She sobbed, clutching his shirt in her fist, "please!"

"I'm so sorry," he whispered, not caring if he cried anymore. This was the hardest thing he'd ever done- screw getting the Queen's jewels. "I'm so, so sorry, Marci."

Her sobs subsided to sniffles and she pulled away. "I love you," she repeated, her eyes still watery.

"I love you too." He said, pouring his heart into those three words, and hoping she heard all his sorrow, regret, and wishing that it could happen. When a ghost of a smile grazed her lips, he knew she had understood.

But then she was on a chesnut horse and riding south towards Gascony. She looked back. D'Artagnan had been staring at the ground, blinking away his tears. He didn't look up.

She turned back around.

* * *

Summer flew by as D'Artagnan practiced as hard as he ever had, working for the Musketeer Corps. He went on away missions often with Athos, Aramis, and Porthos, and in his spare time patrolled the streets of Paris and had small, uneventful skirmishes with the Cardinal's men. He had no time to ponder about his family life- only when they did come to mind, after dreams or late at night before he slept, it left a gaping hole in his chest and him gasping for air.

It didn't get better over time.

He asked Athos about it and he had patiently explained that it took more than just one season to heal. But D'Artagnan knew his body, and he knew his heart better than anyone. It wouldn't get better over time. But he didn't know how to tell Athos this or explain it to anyone else, and he had no information to at least reinforce what he thought.

So he didn't think about his family much, but when he did it hurt. He tried to write, but honestly; how often could he find the time to do that? And it wasn't the same. He needed to see them. He had no time.

D'Artagnan's nineteenth and twentieth birthdays passed with broken promises and scribbled letters. He was so busy becoming a better swordmen he didn't even celebrate his birthdays.

One winter day, two winters from the summer his family had left, (1) found D'Artagnan rushing to the door after urgent knocking. When he opened it, he stood there in shock.

A brown haired, blue eyed beauty stood on his doorstep with little flecks of snowflakes in her hair. Her cheeks were rosy red with cold, but her face was pale. Light freckles danced across her cheeks and over the bridge of her nose. It couldn't be. It was impossible. Yet it was true.

"Tagnan!" And then the young lady hugged him. Marci. Of course it was Marci.

"Marci?" He asked, disbelieving, "what are you doing here?"

She rubbed her face into the coarse fabric of his coat. "I missed you."

And he smiled.

"Hey," an annoyed yet very familiar voice called, "can we come in now, or are you going to leave us standing here? My arse is freezing and my hands are numb. It's cold."

And D'Artagnan recalled the very similar words spoken so long ago and his smile widened. "Aubin? Ceron?"

"You don't think we'd miss you on Christmas, would we Charles?"

"Mother, Father? It's_ Christmas?"_

And then, a hand of his shoulder from behind sent D'Artagnan spinning to greet his mentor. "Merry Christmas, D'Artagnan."

* * *

**It didn't end like I wanted it to, but I am still extremely happy. Actually, what was going to happen for those who are interested was Marci was going to, of course, show up on the doorstep like planned, but only a couple MONTHS later, not YEARS. That was a spur of the moment add in. She was going to live with them, and then be joined by Aubin and Ceron. The parents...would fade to the background, which was my only flaw. I love this ending though, and I hope you do too. **

**Thanks again!**

**~BlackBandit111**


	22. Footnotes

**Any footnotes I might have added as continuous 1s in this story:**

**Pistoles, which are mentioned in Chapter 10, are gold coins which were used in 17th to 18th century. It was worth nearly a pound (.83) or 18 shillings. Imagine 400 of those!**

**In chapter 16, Porthos says: Certainty of death, small chance of success...I'm in!" And I've only just realized upon inspection how very similar it is to the Lord of the Rings quote by Gimli, who says: Certainty of death, small chance of success...what'r we waiting for?" So I was merely letting you all know it was nothing intentional.**

** Le Manoir de Peste Noire translates to: The Manor of Black Death**

**I am unsure as whether to D'Artagnan's name being Charles or D'Artagnan, so in this fic its both. :)**

**I think that's all, but if there's more comment of PM me and I'll be sure to answer them :)**


	23. Acknowledgements

Many thanks to, but in no particular order:

**The Other Ravenclaw Girl**

**BunnyMuffin93**

**DammitimmaD**

**Guest**

**FictionWriter09**

**FallenQueen2**

**Banhan**

**Arieta41**

**Beukie**

**Desensitized**

**HuntressBiancadiAngelo**

**Steff**

**dragonpearlz**

**T1nyDanc3r**

**likenone**

**Umeko**

**PhantomTears**

For all the support and feedback of all who commented. I hope you've enjoyed reading this story as much as I've enjoyed writing it.

Thanks,

BlackBandit111.


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